


Let the wind fan the flame

by snofeey



Series: Crashing Down [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Keith (Voltron) Backstory, Let's just ignore our feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Series, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snofeey/pseuds/snofeey
Summary: Can things ever really change? Keith wasn't sure, but here he is at Garrison, and then he's flying and the wind's calling to him. Shiro knows he should probably stay away from the ace catching his records, but something keeps drawing him back. Life's complicated enough, but add in quiet meetings under the dawn, conflicting emotions, and fights that have what should be a straight road twisting and doubling back, complete with sudden junctions that can anywhere but where you want, and it's just not fair. But things do change, get better, and that beckoning fire warms, doesn't burn. And that kiss, that press of hand in hand, will be well worth the wait.





	1. Cadet Year 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this blossomed into a monstrosity of a fic. Prequel to 'Falling' and 'Crashing Down', who knows how much will go out the window when season 2 comes out but I don't care. Enjoy!

He gets dropped off by the shuttle bus, one of many new faces, crammed together with their boxes, bags, and suitcases, ready to trade their greenness for the burnt orange uniform of Garrison’s Finest, the new batch of cadets. They’d been dropped off by proud parents, family; some patting their children on the back, standing tall as the new generation went off to begin a family tradition, others holding back the tears, the fears as the first child leaves the nest. He sits in the back of the bus, waiting them all out, battered duffel holding the seat next to him along with a glare that dared the world to care. The home’s car had broken down the night before; one of his teachers (the English teacher who had helped him write his application to Garrison when he had decided to apply, after being told it was the best place to go) had dropped him off, a hurried good-bye before she rushed back to make her first home-room class of the year.

Senior cadets, some grinning and sharing in the newbies’ excitement, others trying not to look bored, break the pack up, direct them to their halls, floors, and rooms with an admonition not to be late to the debriefing. Keith wonders how long it could take to move in, but with the amount of baggage some of those around him are lugging, maybe a while. He has a few changes of clothes, uniforms to be provided; it’s books that take up most of what space he fills in the duffel, the friends who’ve gotten him through all the moves, far more than he wants to count. Roofs and places to sleep aren’t constants. The pages of typed words that enfold all who fall into their worlds… _those_ are.

He’s allocated a room with two other boys, a tawny-headed farm-boy named Kyle Thompson and Harrison Johnson, who hailed from the south and had a drawl thicker than anybody Keith had met. They were arguing over who got which bed when he arrived; he took the one they had obviously designated as the least desirable, which stilled the argument pretty quickly. Harrison tried to get him to talk about himself, where he was from, but caught the hint from his silence fairly quickly. Kyle not so much, but the debriefing saved Keith from snapping at him to shut up. Too many people, too close together for his nerves. A new batch of strangers he needed to get used to; only upper-classmen got their own rooms, and even then there was a lottery. He tries to hang back when they get to the arena, but the press of the crowd (was _all_ of Garrison there?) pushes him forward, surrounded by people he didn’t know who pushed, laughed, moved into his space, and set his nerves on fire, the hair on the back of neck standing up. There’s something being said about the rest of their lives, Garrison’s commitment to its cadets and principles, but he can’t hear it over the roar in his ears; then everyone is cheering, and there’s some sort of morale activity and he thinks he’s going to be sick. When it’s finally over and people start moving, he’s gone, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the muffled shouts and curses at his behaviour.

He doesn’t go back to his room until it’s late; Kyle and Harrison are asleep, his schedule on his bed. He stares at it blankly in the half light of the desert moon, sighs, and tries to get some sleep. It doesn’t feel like it yet, but surely this would be better than the shuffling from place to place that he’d been going through for years now. Here he was guaranteed his place for so long as his classes lasted, longer if he decided to stay in Garrison housing once he graduated.

It would be better. It would be.

\---

Three days in and the first fight happens. Keith is out the door before Kyle and Harrison know what’s up, leaving before their angry retorts will have him saying something he’ll regret. He’s been here before, knows how it goes. Best thing to do is just get out.

He exits his hall in the lull between last period and dinner, when everyone is either in the library or, when the weather’s good, out on the front lawn by the pond that offers the sole bit of green for miles. Garrison’s architects left it, the last bit of nature to intrude within their walls; you don’t mess with water in the desert. He could go to the mess hall, get an early supper, but he can’t stand the thought of being around people right now. So he nicks a sleeping bag from stores (no one’s there, it won’t be missed; he’ll have it back in the morning anyway) and heads away from the mess, the dorms, and classroom buildings, clustered together to keep cadets away from the ‘real work’ of Garrison’s officers and administrators.

On the roof of the admin building huddled against the behemoth of the flight control tower, he spends the night staring at the stars. They spread out, countless pricks of light, more than he’s ever seen before. But it’s just a taster, he can tell. Out in the desert, he could see _more_. He stares, holds the promise close, the promise of an expanse so great that it can dwarf everything, make everyone as small as him. So many stars, and he suddenly feels the burning urge to be among them. One day he will, he knows. There have been manned trips to the inner planets for years now, and the first one out to Pluto and its moons had been the subject of fanfare a few years back. Yes, the stars called to him and he silently promised to meet them, stare at their dying light in the bleak expanse of empty space.

Apparently they had shouted loudly enough for someone to report them, because the three are in a junior commander’s office the next morning, heads bowed and fingers twitching as they receive the lecture on learning to get along, how if it really does become a problem then accommodations can be made (but that it will go on the record, because nobody wants a morale problem to suddenly pop up in space), and they’re shaking their heads, muttering “understood ma’am” in unison. Lecture complete, they’re allowed to leave; the junior commander assumes they will make the necessary amends themselves, part of the lesson on social skills that no one teaches. He stares at his feet in the hallway; his fault, he’ll try to block them out better next time.

“So…we’re good?” Kyle asks awkwardly. He and Harrison nod; good enough, shuffle along.

\---

Classes were a mixed bag, but then again, he’d expected that. He’d been to so many different schools, jolted between classrooms and syllabi, entering lessons halfway through, always catching up. He’d been lucky; he could keep up in a fashion, bright enough to tide him over until hours of homework got him as close to par as he could get. Not all could do so; one of the other problem children, who’d bounced around as much as Keith had, if not more, had been held back a year, then two. Keith hadn’t been held back, but his education was lacking in some respects. Couldn’t blame the teachers; they had so much to do, so little time; best to focus what energy they had on the kids who could be counted on to stay longer than a year, than a term. Who actually talked to them. Besides, school wasn’t really his thing.

What he didn’t expect was that he’d enjoy flight basics and flight mechanics as much as he did. For once, he _gets_ it, understands that the metal structuring the planes and hovercraft can only stand so much, that the physics of air and gravity compete with those of propulsion and lift. Put in the context of flight, physics starts to make sense, the mathematical equations that seemed just a pointless exercise in moving numbers around gaining a tangible impact. Because if you move the decimal point one place over, or misplace that constant, things fall apart, fast and explosively.

Kind of like him.

The first time they’re allowed in a flight simulator, their instructor warns them that they will fail. “No one passes on the first go, not me, not those illustrious cadets you’ve all been gossiping about” (he has no idea who she’s talking about, but the nervous laughter tells him that he’s just out of the loop, like always) “First go is to give you a feel of things. Alright, line up.” They’d all flown until the screen flared red, some longer than others. Keith had been at the upper end of the spectrum, left with a pensive look on his face. He actually asked a question when the instructor opened the floor, sims over with, about why the sim had responded the way it had, when the textbooks said it should have done otherwise. Her face brightened, “Well, it’s a bit early, but well done on noticing that. I geared it for conditions that are slightly off the ideal that’s in the textbook. Unfair, I know,” she conceded ruefully as everyone groaned, “But the weather won’t wait for you to catch up.”

The next week, in the next training sim, he was one of the few who passed, ducking his head at the congratulatory grin he received from the instructor as he left the simulator. “You’ve got a knack for this,” she clapped him on the shoulder, winking before turning the next student. “Keep at it.”

He had never felt so accomplished, and while he didn’t know, really, how to handle the feeling, he knew he didn’t want to let it go.

\--O--

“Oi, Shiro,” Sven calls softly, and he turns to see Sven beckoning from the cluster of upper classmen standing to the side of the gym. He joins them, eyebrow raised. Sven points at the first-year class, in the middle of which were four students, separated by the trainer, glaring at each other. Or rather, he noticed on a second go, two glaring at the third, with the fourth grinning behind the two big cadets. “The pair’s been picking on the skinny kid the whole class, with the hanger-on jumping in. Clark’s had enough; he’s letting them go free for all.”

“What’s your bet Fly-boy?” Lisa asked, eyes appraising the situation in front of them. “Kid with the long hair is the ace they say will break your record, Kogane I think; terrible twosome are Gregor’s cousins; not sure who the weasel is.” He rolled his eyes at that; Gregor was not his favourite classmate. “We’re doing victor and time, closest without going over; everyone gets a day of winner’s cleaning detail.” With him in, that would make seven; almost a week off. “Put me down for Kogane,” he said slowly, noting the way the kid had relaxed, settled into a balanced stance, once Clark gave his ruling. He’d heard about the first-year who was acing all of the flight sims, had been warned by Jansson, who ran the flight classes, that he’d have to watch out soon. “What times have been taken?” Answered under three minutes when Lisa told him three and four. And then Clark was leaving the circle, calling a free-fight that ended once you hit the ground, bets were closed, and everyone settled back to watch.

He was surprised despite himself. The kid was _fast_ , jolting forward to elbow the bigger of Gregor’s cousins and forcing him to double-over, wind knocked out. A lock around the bull neck and a twist, and the bigger cadet was on the ground, flat on his back; out. The other cousin was moving by then, shock ceding to anger, but Kogane was already gone, blocking the other’s punches, always moving to redirect the force behind them, and sliding in to land his own before he swept the legs out from under the other cadet, sending him crashing to the ground. The weasel—he had to admit that Lisa’s moniker fit, despite himself—was faster than the two big cadets, but not nearly fast enough, nor skilled enough. Kogane kicked him towards the crowd of onlookers (in the discussion afterwards, the senior cadets all debated over whether that had been intentional or not; they knew the rumours about the cadet’s temper. Most favoured on purpose, while Shiro advocated for giving the kid the benefit of the doubt). The first-years shifted quickly, letting their classmate fall to the ground, winded and wide-eyed. In the stunned silence that followed, Shiro processed Lisa hissing the time.

“And that,” Clark said finally, “Is why you never assume that a smaller opponent will be easier to fight than one your size.”

Kogane folded his arms, glared at the stunned pair. He ignored the weasel. The first-years started moving again, hushed voices whispering to one another, side glances thrown at the figure in the middle, who ignored them all. The knot of upper classmen started to go back to their training as well, but not before Clark cast a jaundiced eye over them, called Sven over. “You don’t need practice fighting bigger opponents,” he sighed, turning back to the younger cadet. “But you could work on your form. And you,” he raised an eyebrow at Sven, “Have gotten complacent. Drills. Go.”

“So glad that isn’t me,” Lisa confided as she set herself opposite of Shiro. He just snorted; Lisa could hold her own against just about anybody. “By the way, you bastard, you won. Let us know what your schedule is.” His answering grin disappeared as she shot forward, the high of victory giving way to the need to concentrate.

\---

He has this habit, where, when it’s not freezing outside or, on the rarest of occasions, raining, he makes his way outside in the early hours of morning. Everything’s crisp and cool, the desert rocks having released all of the heat they accumulated the day before, and the day-break feels full of potential. Everything’s waking up around him, and Shiro likes nothing more than sitting outside on the roof of one of the buildings and watching the sun come up. The sky puts on a show of stained colours while everything settles, still, around him. There’s nothing better.

Normally, he takes a spot on the vehicle shed, off to the side, near the exit ramp. But it’s under repair, and all the other buildings face the wrong direction, lack a flat roof, or are blocked. He decides to try the old admin building, which is perfect for watching the sun come up, but, to his surprise, someone else is there, sitting with their back pushed against the door into the building. It’s the kid from the gym, and while he’s normally loathe to share his morning sky-watching (it’s the one bit of peace he gets before the day gets crazy), a spark of curiosity pushes him forward.

“Do you mind?” The kid shrugs, doesn’t look at him. He notices the sleeping bag. “You spent the night out here? Why?” Notes the tightening of the cadet’s shoulders, doesn’t flinch under the look he gets. “I don’t feel the walls out here,” the cadet said quietly, “and I know how to take care of myself,” clearly seeing no need to explain himself further. Shiro almost retorts, but he hears the subtle warning and decides to heed it. There’s something about Kogane that has him believing his words, that reminds him at the same time of lighter fluid about to hit an open flame. And he remembers the fight, the way Kogane held himself, moved to take out the biggest threat. The cadet’s about as social as a rock, but not in the way the computer geeks assigned to the com are.  There’s something else there, that speaks to experience and that this cadet actually can look after himself. So Shiro just nods, sits where he can watch the sunrise. He wants to ask why Kogane’s out here, but gets the impression that another question isn’t exactly welcome right now.

After a few minutes, he hears the other shift. Expecting to see Kogane leaving, he turns; instead he catches the cadet staring at the sun, relaxed again, though still watchful.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he says softly, returning his gaze to watch the red spread across the sky. There’s streaks of purple and gold; never the same twice. “I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw a sunset here. There’s nothing like this back home.” Kogane doesn’t say anything, and he can’t see the other cadet’s expression, but it doesn’t matter. The silence is companionable, odd for two who had just met, kind of.

He introduces himself when he stands to leave, smiles when he gets the cadet’s full name— _Keith Kogane_. “I saw you fight the other day,” he admits, grins when Kogane raises an eyebrow. “How the hell did you get so fast?” He gets a glimmer of a smile in return and a shrug. “Just am, I guess.”

Kogane disappeared to return the sleeping bag, and Shiro found himself thinking about the encounter, wondering whether he’d run into the other cadet again.

\---

His week of winnings spent, it’s kind of hard to return to his usual cleaning detail. Those assigned with him laugh, tease him about the bet. One of the engineers, Jean, chides him for not sharing his winnings with Kogane; least you could have done, she tells Shiro, face serious but eyes laughing. Have you met him? another final year scoffs; kid doesn’t talk, and when he does, gets in a fight. This year’s problem child.

There’s always one; when Shiro started, it was a loud-mouthed girl named Sian, hair as red as her temper. She had a devil’s streak in her, she’d joke, and took perverse joy in simply disrupting everything. Sven called her Loki’s get, invoking the old Norse god of mischief incarnate, and Shiro had to admit that his friend was right despite the fact that he liked Sian, had considered her a friend. He was sure she had her reasons, but she left (on her own or expelled, no one knew) before he could find them out. They’re usually angry, the problem kids, shoved towards Garrison in an attempt to ‘straighten them out.’ He didn’t know if it worked, but Kogane had the sullen face and defensive shell that suggested that he, like Sian, had been sent this way to ‘instill discipline’ in him.

Sian had stolen his first kiss, laughed when he gaped at her. “Not to your liking?” she had teased, eyes dancing in mischief and mirth, as if she had known the answer all along, and nothing had come of it. There were many reasons for it, one being that he felt an inch away from expulsion around her half the time. His nerves and the need to do well, to seek the pleasure of accomplishment (and accolade), to push himself, well, they hadn’t partnered well with the Molotov cocktail that bubbled in Sian. Especially then, with the pressure of first-year and the need to prove himself to a new group, and himself. He’d sobered since then, or at least, he hoped so. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to her; never found out, wasn’t sure of her last name anymore. Something Irish, or was it Welsh?

On a whim, Shiro stops by Jansson’s office after his last class. She’s in there, frowning at readouts on her screen, but looks happy to put them to the side when he knocks. He laughs when she asks what brings the fabled Takashi Shirogane to her office, admits to having met the cadet that she claimed would beat his records. Her mouth quirked, face took on a calculating cast. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think I’m in trouble,” he conceded, “But only if he makes it past the first year.” She sighs; yes, there is that.

\--O--

He finds out sometime later that the Takashi Shirogane he met on the roof of the admin building is the current golden boy of Garrison’s fighter pilots. Funny, he seemed too nice to be the favourite. Shrugs it off, not like he’ll see him again; he’s not high on the list that people like Shirogane socialize with (even if he did socialize). Though, he had been one of the better people Keith had met since he started at Garrison. And he’d never have thought that someone spoken as reverentially as the braggarts did of Shirogane would ever be found watching the sunrise, would speak of it in the way he had. Guess you can never tell.

Things are getting better with Kyle and Harrison. They’ve figured out that when he doesn’t answer their questions, it’s not because he’s being an asshole, but because he’s done talking for the day or because he doesn’t have an answer, or at least one that he’s comfortable giving. He’d seen Kyle struggling with his flight mech homework, had offered to help as a peace overture. In return Kyle now tutored him through the ethics class all first-years were required to take (turns out foster care didn’t exactly prepare one for ‘ethics,’ which really just seemed to be dancing around the truth and trying not to offend certain people while not giving a rat’s ass about the rest. Kyle assured him that wasn’t the case, but he was still sceptical). Harrison filched food from the mess whenever he noticed Keith missed a meal. He even started smiling at their jokes, got a stunned stare from them both the first time his caustic wit voiced itself, a thunder of laughter from Harrison once the shock wore off. He tuned out when they talked about home, about their families and the people they missed, hoped were coming for families’ weekend; they didn’t try to draw him in. That’s what the first fight had been about.

He lives for flight sims, finding a confidence in his ability to do something right. Half the time he gets comments on the ‘originality’ of how he solves the tests the sims pose regarding course corrections, speed, engine problems; he’s told he needs to try and stick to the textbook, but since he hasn’t crashed or injured anyone in the sim, they’re content to let him fly as he will. The sims are great, but he’s beginning to yearn for that chance when he’ll be out of the sim, in the air. It’ll be different, the instructor warned them, but he doesn’t care. Something tells him this different will be good, and he’s eager to proceed, impatient. But they don’t progress to air flights until all are ready, and that likely won’t be until after the summer break, months away.

His scores start getting noticed; upper level instructors periodically stop by and watch, cadets know his name, some even from the upper years. He doesn’t care, until that day when he beats Shirogane’s record (sim-flight, first-year cadets) and suddenly the entire base knows his name and wants to be his best friend, surrounds him in their insincerity.

It takes a week of snapping at people, at taking round-about routes to class and hiding out during meals before all the would-be sycophants get the idea and leave him alone. He’s so stressed out that despite the fact that Kyle and Harrison don’t ask about it and help hide him, a few days in of his new celebrity he’s sleeping outside just to get away from the press of humanity. Shirogane’s there in the mornings to watch the sunrise again. Keith bristles the first day it happens, ready to tell him to just fuck off, but Shirogane doesn’t say anything other than good morning, sits to one side where he’s close enough for any conversation that might happen (but doesn’t) but far enough away for Keith to breathe. He isn’t sure why, but he has the feeling that the older cadet is doing this on purpose. On the third day of waking up tired and battered, he’s so exhausted that he barely acknowledges the greeting. They’ll get the idea soon, Shirogane tells him quietly, and leave you alone. Garrison’s attention is short, there’ll be some new spectacle for them to gawk at. He only nods, hopes that it will be soon.

\---

He doesn’t start fights. Sure, he runs his mouth, snipes back when he should stay quiet, so the fights are his fault, but he’s never thrown the first punch. Been tempted many times, but he has enough self-control and awareness that if he does that, he’s toast. He dances on the edge of a knife enough as it is; throw a punch, and the guillotine comes down, everyone has the opportunity to smile, nod understandingly, though disappointedly of course, and there he’ll go, out the door into the waste-basket of rejects and could-have-beens. He won’t give them the satisfaction of being right. So hard as it is, he holds his fists at his side, waits for someone else to throw that first punch (and be seen, not that anyone has picked a fight with him in private, in the dark; they’re too smart for that, too smart too, to go against him one on one) before he lets his own fists fly. Still gets in trouble, gets assigned more punishment detail that anyone else, but they can’t toss him.

Nor do they want to, with flight scores like his. They keep him afloat, but they also invite weighty lectures on his ‘potential’ and ‘attitude’ and how the two aren’t compatible. The instructors see them as oil and water; he leans towards oil and fire.

So there he sits, sullen and silent, as Commander Wade laces into him, lecturing him on everything from his attitude to his hair to his ability to do anything other than fly or fight. The ‘fighter’ part of ‘fighter pilot’ isn’t to be taken literally, he’s told, the commander’s tone patronizing and iron; Garrison’s cadets should be able to rein in their tempers. He refrains from pointing out that he didn’t start the fight, that the annoying cadet, McClain or something, and his pack of cronies had. It’s useless. They know how to make nice; Keith couldn’t if his life depended on it. And even if he could, he wouldn’t; that was for asshats like McPain.

Finally it comes to an end, and Keith’s given his punishment: a week of cleaning duty in the library, supervised by one of the senior cadets, from whom Keith could do a lot worse than picking up some tips on how to conduct himself as a representative of Garrison. His shoulders hunch, but he nods, salutes when dismissed. Just great. A week of lectures awaits.

At the end of his classes for the day, he reports as expected at the main library, asks at the desk and is directed to the back storage room where, to his surprise, is the tall figure of Takashi Shirogane. “No, I’m not here on punishment duty,” the older cadet says with a crooked grin at the shock on Keith’s face, “This is taking the place of my usual cleaning stints. Hope you know how to dust.”

It’s a week of dusting and sorting books, cataloguing records that no one has looked at in years, and while the dust has him sneezing up a storm (he’s sent to the infirmary for antihistamines, but they can only do so much), the two hours each day that he’s to serve out his punishment are some of the best ones of his day. Shirogane doesn’t expect him to talk, doesn’t talk much himself, though he does hum snatches of music Keith doesn’t know now and then. Keith almost asks him why he’s being so nice, why he’s so patient with the problem child that so many have already written off, but he can’t bring himself to hear the answer; it’s never good. On the last day though, Shirogane looks at him and smiles in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. A sad smile; he’s good at recognizing those. The social workers always seemed to wear them around the older kids, the ones they knew they could never place. “Don’t let them beat you,” Shirogane’s saying. “They’re jealous and jealousy makes people mean. You’re a good pilot; don’t let others badger you to where they take that away from you.”

He’s shocked, stunned at the experience that colours the advice; had Shirogane suffered through some of what Keith was? But why? He knew why he was getting it—angry, broken, everyone’s cast off—but couldn’t figure out why the other cadet would have. “Thanks,” he finally stutters, and Shirogane’s face lifts, smiles more broadly. As they leave, he clasps Keith on the shoulder briefly, “If you need anything, you know where to find me. And it’s Shiro.” Nods, smiles as best he can in his surprise, hears himself saying “Keith then,” as Shirogane, Shiro, gives him a quick salute in farewell before they part at the junction of hallways.

\---

He’s been showing up more regularly, to the admin building roof to watch the sunset. It’s not that he’s looking to socialize, but he likes the calm of dawn-break. Shirogane (he’s supposed to call him Shiro, does when he talks to him, but finds it hard to think of the older cadet as ‘Shiro,’ the shortened name too personal, too close) is there somedays, others he’s on another roof. Keith hasn’t asked, or searched him out. He tells himself he doesn’t mind, but on the days when Shirogane’s on the admin roof as well, well, those are good ones, and he’s a bit shocked when he realizes that he ends up going out only on the days of the week when he knows that Shiro will be on the admin roof. He likes Shiro, finds his presence comforting and challenging at the same time. Shirogane doesn’t mind his silence, has answered the odd question about flying that the instructors put off or that he doesn’t want to ask them. He would say that Shiro was his friend, if he were anyone else or lived another life. He wants to, he does, but something tight and terrifying holds him back every time.

And because he’s a suspicious bastard, he doesn’t trust what he’s been given. So really, he’s not surprised when it finally happens.

It starts off innocuously enough. One of the hot shots from his flight mech class starts running his mouth; the usual favourite of Keith’s attitude, this time the flavouring of how his inability to talk to girls (or, Keith thinks silently, dislike of talking at all, but then that wouldn’t fit the tale) stems from his lack of actual masculinity, and hence the bad attitude to compensate, with the penchant for picking fights (no, that’s you, he fumes, trying to concentrate on his homework; more ethics, which makes this moment oh so perfect). The girls titter, some look over at him as if to appraise his reaction. Harrison had laughed at Keith’s face when he told him that the girls thought Keith quite the catch. He hadn’t noticed, or cared. Then the pencil tapping starts, off-beat enough to be continually jarring, and when he raises his eyes to glare at his classmate, the other cadet just smirks, apologizes, and then starts drumming his fingers when Keith goes back to his book. His hissed “do you mind?” is met with a lazy grin, triumph. “Free period man, not study hall. Library’s down the hall, nerd.” He glares; he’s not backing down. “Go be an asshole outside,” he snaps. “Some of us actually study.”

“Manners cadet,” comes the drawl, “Your mother should have taught you better.” His shoulders tense and a cold pit opens in his gut. He could respond with some comment on how the bully’s mother obviously hadn’t taught _him_ better, but doesn’t, can’t; despite the years, the loss is still too painful to stoop that low.

“Arrogant idiots weren’t in the etiquette book,” he retorts instead, and the cadet is up, sputtering about how a stuck-up little kid like Keith has no right to call him stupid when not everyone gets to grow-up with the privileges that Keith has. He loses it; did this asshole actually think he had grown up being able to fly and talk flight mech with his parents, have special schooling? He’s up on his feet as well, and he’s dimly aware of people forming a rough circle around them, and the fists are about to go when a firm, accented voice cuts through.

“Attention cadets!” Even the two in the middle obey the command, glaring at one another as they do. Two senior cadets push through, the stripes on their uniforms conveying just how much trouble everyone was in, and Keith felt himself tense as he saw the second. Takashi Shirogane stood behind the big cadet who had yelled, his face expressionless and stern, no indication that he knew anyone involved in the mess before him. The tall, broad-shouldered senior cadet gave Keith and his opponent a passing glance before ordering one of the on-lookers for the story, and he realized with a start that it was the same senior cadet he had been paired off against in weapons a while back. Holgor… something.

“What do you think Shiro?” Snorted but nodded all the same when Shirogane suggested restriction from the mess for the day and separation. “Ja, ok. You heard him; Senior Cadet Shirogane thinks you should have a second chance to behave. So you’ll get one. If I even hear a whisper that the two of you have started something, it’s a week’s latrine duty or whatever I can convince Commander Wade that you need to straighten up.” They both wince; Wade was notorious for lectures and escalating punishments. Then it’s pack up the things, one junior cadet each to leave with a senior cadet; separate the two, relocation like bears too close to campground trash.

He doesn’t say anything, and Shiro doesn’t either until they’re in hallways that contain no one else. “You shouldn’t have responded,” he says quietly. _No shit_ Keith thinks, the temper remaining and his back tightening. “You keep this up Keith and even your flight scores won’t be able to save you.” Clenches his jaw. Yeap, there it is, that goddam, familiar tone of lecture, of one who ‘knows better.’ He knew it, _knew_ something like this would come. Ignores the protests of friendship, the need to be less extreme in his responses, more forgiving; life wasn’t forgiving, why should he be?

Shiro stops, folds his arms. He clearly expects a response. Keith huffs; “I know.” But Shirogane only raises an eyebrow, “Do you?” And that’s it. His face sets, folds his own arms and settles back on his heels. It’s his fighting stance, and while he won’t throw a punch (even he knows better than that), the stance is solid, balanced, and comforting. “Actually, yes, I do. Better than _you_ do.” Brushes past, doesn’t look back; he never does, not because he doesn’t care, but because he can’t. He misses the shock that rushes over Shiro’s, no, _Senior Cadet Shirogane’s_ face, ignores his name called out, and just keeps walking. Doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, knows that no one is running after him, that he’s leaving it all behind.

He shouldn’t have responded as he did, he knows it, but couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t trust the friendship offered. He broke everything; why did he always break everything?

He’s a mess afterwards, though he doesn’t let anyone see, not that they’d be able to tell; throws himself into flight sims and weapons class, and for those hours of class and absolute focus, he feels like a competent human being. Otherwise it’s just a spiral of nerves, emotions, and the bitter laugh of experience telling him he should have known better as he wonders why this time he wishes that he hadn’t broken what any normal person would have called friendship.

\--O--

He feels like a fool, standing in the empty hall after Keith leaves, face set, sullen. Rubbing his face in his hands, Shiro sighs, wonders what he should do. What he even _can_ do.

Lisa gives him a look when he asks her advice. “You know you can’t save them all.” Annoyed, he assure her that he did (neither of them believed him, based on her snort); let him cool off, she suggests, then tell him why you gave him the lecture. “It wasn’t a lecture,” he protests weakly, and she laughs. “Fly-boy, you can make a ‘hello how are you’ into a lecture when you’re not thinking. I know, you don’t mean to, but take pity on us mere mortals.” She raises an eyebrow, lips quirk. “You like this kid don’t you?” He tries to brush it off, but Lisa knows him too well; they’ve been friends since first-year flight mechanics, and he knows she and Sven gossip about him when he’s not around. She teases him about having a ‘thing’ for the bad boys, and he rolls his eyes, “Not helping Lisa.”  She just laughs kindly, clasps him on the shoulder, wishes him luck and tells him not to overthink it. Sven, when the subject comes up, isn’t much better; his first piece of advice is to get as far away as possible from the ticking time bomb that is cadet Kogane.

“You just don’t like that he almost beat you in weapons,” Shiro sighs, wishing he had friends who gave better advice with fewer cutting insights as Sven snorts, “And you have a hero complex and need to save people. The kid can probably take you; who says he needs to be saved? Not all who enter Garrison’s doors in orange are meant to leave in green.”

He goes back to the admin building the next morning, eschewing his usual place on the vehicle shed; not that he expects Keith will be back so soon, but just in case. As he watches the sunrise, he thinks about what had happened, how Keith had shut down as soon as he had asked if Keith knew what he was doing. He hadn’t been thinking; if he had, he would have remembered that first conversation they had, the warning in Keith’s tone. He frowns, searching for answers in the colour spreading across the desert sky. None are there, but he keeps looking.

So maybe he does have a bit of a hero complex. So what? His brow creases as Sven’s words from the previous day come back. Keith probably could beat him in hand to hand, though he’d like to think that he’d give Keith a good run for his money; give him a few years, and for sure the younger cadet could, no question. But at the same time… that’s not all there was to life. And there was something, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about Keith that made his stupid hero complex come out and mess everything up as it so obviously had.

“Shit,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the wall of the roof entrance and closing his eyes. Lisa had been right as well. He _did_ like Keith. And just fucking perfect that he realizes it the day after he ruined everything.

\---

Once each year, the second-years up to fourth go up into space, one at a time. It’s part of the training, to accustom the would-be pilots, engineers, and com specialists with the great empty expanse, the void through which some of them will transverse. There are scientists and junior scientists, who form their own cadet stream at Garrison, on the station as well, some eager to share their knowledge of the stars and planets with the cadets, others tired and harried, annoyed to emerge from the work of the mind and their labs.

Shiro’s used to the trip now; the first time it had been exhilarating, terrifying as the transport groaned its way out of the atmosphere, headed for the station that orbited the Earth. Most of the class had experienced some sort of air sickness (though how there could be air sickness when there was no air was a subject that vexed Lisa to no end, to this day; Sven attributed it to nerves).

As he waits with Lisa and Sven for their turn to run the test flight in the small ship, he stares out at the stars. He never tires of watching them up here; he could spend the whole trip watching their light, wondering what their home galaxies and systems are like. Most are dead, he knows that, but what a show their dying puts out. Stories, reaching out from eons past, the pale, momentary accompaniment to the daily cycle of the sun; a single death to the daily death of the great star that dictates the fortunes of the Terran system. Not really a death, more of a departure, return rather than rebirth. A promise that must be kept, that the warm light of dawn will echo out again, heat the ground and fuel new growth.

Then it’s their go, and the three are in the ship and Shiro focuses on the job at hand. Perfect scores when they return, not that anyone’s surprised (Lisa asked if he’d been replaced by a robot, or been turned into a cyborg; laughing, he promised that she’d be the first to know if he ever did gain robotic body parts). He is surprised though, to see who’s watching the tests when they leave the docking bay. There are a few admirals, some higher officers as well. They hadn’t been there the previous years, but then again, why bother? Final year was what counted; those who got there could be counted on to remain, to hold steady in the friction of Garrison’s rules and the yearn to explore that drew so many young cadets to Garrison’s halls. They salute the officers, and Shiro moves to the side when beckoned over; Lisa and Sven leave, dismissed.

“Senior Cadet Shirogane is a service to our fighter pilot programme,” the space flight instructor is saying as he introduces Shiro to the admiral and commanders who turned away from the view screen with the next flight. “We have high hopes for him.” He salutes, says that he hopes to meet their expectations, gets the noncommittal _I’m sure you will_ murmur from one of the commanders. There’s some questions on his plans after graduation, where he hopes to be placed; space division is his answer, though he’s happy to serve where Garrison thinks he’s best needed.

“A bit of both, perhaps,” one of the commanders says thoughtfully, eyes appraising. “Cadets look up to you.” He doesn’t know what to say, nods, “Ma’am.”

When he makes his way back to where he thought Lisa and Sven would be waiting, he thinks about the interchange. Might not be such a bad thing to be kept at Garrison, though he hoped that he wouldn’t be there all the time. Eyes go back to the stars, wonder at their secrets.

What was out there?

\---

It’s been almost two weeks, and he knows Keith is avoiding the admin building. The mess is so crazy that it’s hard to find anybody in it, let alone someone whose super power seems to be fading into the background. Plus he doesn’t really want to go up to Keith in public; he knows gossip tends to follow him around, and he’s made his peace with it. But based on Keith’s reaction to his brief bit of accolade (he heard about the verbal fights through the grapevine, had seen the emotional strain for himself), it wasn’t something the younger cadet was likely to ever be comfortable with, or welcome when it came his way, for whatever reason.

So when he sees Keith studying in an empty corner of the library, brow furrowed in concentration, he figures this is his best chance to apologize and he might as well take it lest it also be his last. He’s not sure what to say, but he knows that he feels bad about how things had gone and he misses Keith’s mostly-silent presence during his morning sky watching. He doesn’t even think about what might be; asking Keith to forgive him enough so that they might be friends is enough. He doesn’t know a lot about Keith, but he does know that whatever happens, it will happen at the other’s pace, not his.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “You have a minute?” Keith looks up; his eyes narrow, but he nods. “I wanted to apologize,” he continues, looking down and feeling awkward for towering over Keith, who remained seated on the floor, but he also knows sitting down is assuming a level of familiarity that won’t go over well right now. “I didn’t mean to lecture, and I shouldn’t have, but I kind of did. And I’m sorry.” He feels foolish and is sure he sounds it, but Keith nods, gives a quiet thanks.

He’s not sure what else to say, notes the books and papers strewn around Keith. “Flight dynamics?” Keith nods, “Yeah, test tomorrow.”

“Good luck with it,” and he takes his leave, doesn’t see Keith stare at his back pensively, confusion peeking through before he sighs and returns to his notes.

He feels better about things once it’s over with, curious as well as to what will happen. He expects not much, though he hopes he’ll start seeing Keith again in the mornings. Shiro sometimes still sits on the roof of the vehicle shed, but he’s begun preferring the admin building. It’s quieter for longer in the mornings and has a better view. There’s other reasons too, but he’s not letting himself think about them right now.

Space flight has them all reviewing their flights from earlier, their second-to-last non-sim space flight before graduation. His tour is up on the screen as the model case, earning eye rolls from some students and gasps of feigned shock from others which transfer over into friendly laughter. He’s used to it by now, but he can’t wait until he’s just another pilot. There must be several, loads, as good as he is out there. Sure, he’s the best cadet pilot in years, but there must be others who reached their peak after the heightened environment of cadet school, when meeting and exceeding the standards was your job, not a cause for accolade. Once he’s out, in their ranks, he’ll fade back into the background, one of the good ones, maybe even one of the best, but no longer _the_ best. It’ll be a nice change. He’s tired of being the star (not that he’ll complain, no never; so many more have it worse than him. He has no right to complain), tired of constantly being appraised, held to standards that are not always clear and trying to figure out how to meet them.

The instructor’s going through all the flight, clips of stellar moments and of less than ideal ones too, read-outs from the ships’ computers for them to analyze and discuss. And as they do so, he tries to turn his mind back from its dreams of the future, of when things will be different, when he can learn how to fade into the background a bit himself.

\--O--

It’s nice to be outside in the early morning again; maybe he had gotten more used to this than he had thought. But he feels awkward as hell walking up to the admin building. Shiro’s there, staring calmly at the sun’s show. He smiles when Keith shows, waves aside the question of whether he could join. He sits, silence settles over them as they watch the sun rise, still until the need to say something about why that had happened presses against him, urgent and needing to get out. He doesn’t often get this feeling (fortunately, because it’s annoying and terrifying), but he knows he needs to heed it.

“I don’t like lectures,” he blurts out, starting mid-thought, blushes when he realizes that Shiro probably has no idea what he’s talking about. After a momentary confused look, he gets a snort and wry smile in response. “I kind of figured.” Shiro’s voice is kind, but it doesn’t stop the blush from spreading. Yeah, it had been pretty obvious.

“I’m sorry I blew up,” he adds after a minute, and Shiro accepts the apology, tells him not to worry about it, but something still isn’t sitting right. He pulls his knees up, worries his bottom lip as red spreads, stains the sand touched by the sun. ( _Red sky in morning, sailors take warning_.) Sighs, frustrated at the fact that his mouth can never seem to form the words that his brain requires.

“I’ve been kicked out of three schools,” Keith begins softly, trying to release the need to explain his behaviour. He doesn’t know how; it’s not something he does usually, explain himself. “More after school programmes than I want to count.” Pauses. “More homes too.” Smiles weakly at the look on Shiro’s face, the question that sits there but isn’t being asked. “Foster care. Didn’t work out too well.” He sighs, rolls his shoulders, tries to relax now that he has an idea of where he’s going. “So I know _exactly_ how to get myself kicked out. It’s one of the few things I do know, that and how to get into fights.” Shiro sighs; doesn’t doubt the first, though he will argue over the second. “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for” is all Shiro says at the look Keith gives him. Maybe.

“I’m sorry I doubted you earlier,” Shiro continues, “I shouldn’t have.” Now it’s his turn to accept the apology, again, wave aside the concern. His anger had burned out a day or so after the mini-lecture, but he hadn’t trusted anything enough to let Shiro know. He probably should have, on reflection. Probably should tell Shiro now, but he doesn’t really know what to say, how to explain the fact that no one’s ever been around long enough for him to figure out how friendship works. Sure, he had friends when he was a kid, before everything, but it’s different when you’re seven than when you’re seventeen.

 After the first big fight with Harrison and Kyle the whole mess had been pushed to the side, covered under the rug of ‘are we good?’ He’s not sure what else to say, but doesn’t feel like that is right. ‘Are we good’ feels like a patch, a cover up, uneasily tacked over pieces from disparate puzzle sets to force them into a configuration none of them really fit. He wants to be done with this fight, but isn’t sure _how._

It’s Shiro who ends up breaking the silence, moving them forward, as he asks how the exam went. He shrugs, feeling the tension leave his body at the change of subject and unfurls as he answers. Alright; grades in a few days, so they’ll know then. “We’re getting a new instructor today for sims though,” he adds. “Iversson, I think.” Shiro nods, says he remembers when Iversson took the first class for his year-group.

“He does it on and off first-year, takes over for second and third,” he says. Then gives Keith a wry look. “Heads up. He’s a stickler for the rules.” Keith groans, mutters how that’s just fantastic under his breath, and Shiro laughs. But it’s kind, warm with amusement shared between friends and so Keith just smiles ruefully in concession, doesn’t mind it at all.

They’re silent until they have to leave, make breakfast before morning classes, but it’s a companionable silence, relaxed and warm in the chill of the desert dawn. “See you around?” he asks tentatively as they’re about to go their separate ways.

“Yeah.” Shiro grins, slow, like he had also been unsure of how this would go, happy that this is the way things had turned. “See you around Keith.”

\---

When Iversson enters the room Keith knows he’s in for it. There’s comments on how ‘inventive’ answers are all well and good, but the textbook is not to be disregarded and was written for a reason. “Tried and tested!” the big man booms out, and while everyone is staring forward, knowing that they must hang on to these words, he can feel their eyes dart over to him, back to Iversson, sidle over again. He tries not to shrink into his seat, back ramrod straight and shoulders tense out of expectation. Waiting for his name to be called, for the hints at who had caused the commander’s ire to raise to become actual words, understandable and in the open. But it never happens, and after a few more minutes of lecture, Iversson moves on.

He does try to follow the textbook in the sim. He really does, but the textbook demands steps which are unnecessary for a single pilot (and would be for a pilot plus crew, if his classmates were halfway competent) and is far too cautious. Keith’s figured out how to read the sim, how it simulates the shakes of a jet when there’s wind turbulence, or when he’s pushing it to the point of engine arrest or wing decompression. The rest of the class hasn’t; they need to follow the textbook, why should he be held back by them?

“When I run sims,” Iversson tells him, voice a low, _you-will-listen_ timbre, “The required take-off and landing steps will be followed, as will flight parameters. Understood?” Yes sir, of course sir (three bags full sir), salute and be dismissed. Not a question, that last bit, but a warning. Jansson gives him a sympathetic look, commends him on his scores and hands him a white ticket.

“Inventiveness aside,” she says, eyes smiling, “the commander agrees that you can be relied not to break anything or injure yourself. This will allow you into the sims, so long as there’s not a class running and there’s someone on duty to run the programme.” Eyebrow raises with the suggestion to start his practice by becoming familiar with Garrison standards for flight and course corrections. He nods, takes the white ticket; manages not to roll his eyes. This is a gift, and he knows better than to do anything to squander it.

Kyle drags him out later for a game of basketball. He’s not great at getting the ball in the hoop, but he’s hard to catch (like a greased pig, one of Kyle’s friends complains good-naturedly at the end of the game) and he can pass just fine. He gets a clap on the back from Kyle and the other guy on their team, who grins, says Keith can join anytime, so long as it’s on his team. And old joke it seems, for Kyle and the others just laugh as he smiles crookedly, sharing in the mirth.

He tries out his new pass later the next evening, gets waved through by a bored tech attendant. “You’re cleared for basic levels,” he’s told as the programme is booted up. “Any weird readings, and I shut her down. Got it? Good. Enjoy.” Back to his magazine, and Keith settles into the silence of the sim, the soft hum of the computers and mechanical parts. The tech’s warning and the previous day’s lesson still ringing in his ears has him going through standard procedures, intending to get it closer to the point where they become the natural choice. He gets bored fast, turns his attention to how far he can push those standard procedures and still remain within the textbook’s parameters. He’s still working on it when he leaves, mind turning over equations and constants, what wind force might do to the problem he had set himself. Not exactly what he had set out to do, but so much more _interesting_.

Shiro grins, congratulates him when Keith tells him of the pass a few days later. He asks what Keith’s tried so far, tells about when he got the sim shut down on him for ‘weird readings’ and looks a little sheepish before he laughs that the tech just hits the button to kill the programme when something beeps at him. Before he knows it, Keith’s drawn in, soaking in the enthusiasm Shiro gives off and sharing his own. He’s animated, talking more than he has in a while, eyes bright as he tries to explain, hands moving the air when he can’t get the right words, what flying means to him. Shiro nods, smiles, doesn’t need them to be said; he gets it too.

They have to run to make first period, the bustle at the entrance to the admin building loud enough to disrupt them before the bell rings. Keith barely makes it, sliding into his desk right as the start of class blares its wakening across Garrison, start of the official day, all in order, time to go. He doesn’t mind though, doesn’t see the side-long glances thrown his way, the instructor’s raised eyebrow (it’s ethics; there had been bets as to whether he’d show, when it was getting close. Kyle alone bet that Keith would show on time and cleaned up for it. He shared his winnings later that night with Keith and Harrison, something Keith found immensely amusing).

He doesn’t know why Takashi Shirogane decided that Keith was worth having as a friend, but he’s never been happier to have his cynicism proven wrong.

\---

He’s out of sorts still in the next morning from what happened, what’s been happening, in study hall. Every. Freaking. Time.

“What have the clouds done to you?” Shiro’s voice, laced with amusement, breaks him out of his frustrated thoughts, his frowning at the sky which was covered in the heavy purple clouds that even the sun’s brilliance couldn’t penetrate. Monsoon season, the locals called it, that brief period in the year when rain could be relied on, when the ponderous rain clouds eked their way across the desert through the day, releasing their load late afternoon when they just couldn’t bear the heat anymore. Early this year.

He sighs, shakes his head. Asks if Shiro ever had a classmate that he just wanted to kick out a window, which gets a laugh and a shake of the head; “None so bad,” he tells Keith. “Maybe I have a better class than you.” _Or just me_ he thinks, but doesn’t say anything. Frowns, tries to articulate what it is that gets him so. Thing is, it’s something different every time and there’s no rhyme or reason to what it’ll be, or why it’s happening.

“Who has the time to keep thinking these things up?” he complains, knows he’s starting mid-thought again, but he’s too agitated to slow down, go back, and besides, the past few times this has happened, Shiro’s been able to catch up, so he doesn’t (really) worry about it anymore. “Last time he was tapping his pencil to that horrible fight song. And in between, he’s always bragging about everything.” He huffs at the amused expression on Shiro’s face. “Really. If you made falling on your face a competition, he’d claim to be the best.” Mutters the other cadet’s name when Shiro asks— _Lance McClain_ —adding “more like McPain” to the end, which causes Shiro to snort, fight to hold back a laugh. He shoots a side glare Shiro’s way, but his heart isn’t in it, and soon he snorts as well, sighs, leans back. He’s not going to ever understand his classmate’s behaviour; might as well make his peace with it.

Shiro thinks ‘McPain’ is hilarious, which has him kind of embarrassed (it’s just a dumb name); he tells Keith about his friend Lisa, who thinks up the worst-slash-best nicknames: ‘Fly-Boy’ for him (now Keith’s turn to snort), ‘Thor’ for Sven since he’s tall and Norwegian and should be blonde. “McPain’s not so bad,” Shiro grins, “Plus points for the pun.” Keith just rolls his eyes and shoves Shiro, earning himself another laugh. (Almost two years later, Shiro will remember this conversation, finally put two and two together, and burst out laughing when he sees Keith and Lance squabbling. When everyone demands what’s so funny, Keith’ll remember the nickname, pale, shake his head furiously behind their backs. Shiro won’t tell, still finds ‘McPain’  more hilarious than Keith does; he will, however, refuse to comment on the validity of the moniker.)

Later when he’s got his head buried in a flight manual, he hears Harrison casually ask where he goes in the mornings. “Didn’t notice at first, cause you’re so sneaky-quiet,” he continues, not caring that Keith hasn’t acknowledged him, “But it’s pretty regular now and I’ve noticed. You meeting a girl?” Nothing; keeps reading. “Dude then?” Keith’s pretty sure the jerk of his shoulders doesn’t mean anything, but Harrison obviously thinks differently.

“Told you!” he grins, tossing his pillow at Kyle, who chooses that moment to start paying attention. Keith frowns, tries to immerse himself back in his textbook, but his concentration’s snapped. “Told you he was meeting someone!” Gives up, sighs and glares at Harrison, who just grins disarmingly when Keith demands if they’ve been talking about him.

“Roommates, man,” he explains, Kyle nodding in the background. “We’re allowed to gossip. It makes up for having to share this tiny box with strangers. And speaking of which,” gives Keith a serious, admonitory look. “You have seriously been letting us down. Kyle and me have no one to gossip with about each other, and you get boring fast.”

“Good,” he deadpans. “And that’s not how gossip works.”

Harrison just laughs. “So this guy you’re meeting?” He rolls his eyes, turns back to his books. “Just a friend Harrison, lay off.”

“Uh-huh.” Not convinced, either of them. “I always meet my friends in the early morning,” from Harrison, “If he just a friend, what’s his name?” from Kyle. Doesn’t respond to either, trying to push down the nerves raising from the fact that their teasing is actually making him think about what his friendship with Shiro means, what he wants it to be, what it can’t be.

“His ears are turning red!” Slaps his hands over them as Harrison crows, looks at them pleadingly. “Please, can we stop?” Harrison’s chortling still, but he nods; Kyle does as well, a little more sympathetically.

It’s quiet in the dorm after that, and eventually he gets his head back in place, but it takes a while, his thoughts running everywhere, mostly in a light panic. The familiar pages of equations and would-be cases, to be learned and internalized, reach out to comfort, but they can’t fully erase an old ache, a wish to feel a hand in his.

\--O--

There’s a knot of first-years huddled in the corner of the mess, whispering furiously to one another. Lisa saunters over beside him, follows his gaze. Your cadet’s gotten into a mess again, she says softly. He gives her a look, halts the complaint when he sees her face. “Bad?” he asks her, gets the unhelpful answer of “well, half of the Sci-fi twerps are taking his side, so however bad that is. Careful Fly-boy,” and she’s off.

The first-years gape at him when he asks if they know where cadet Kogane is, accept the gloss of flight training. No one knows, not even the one introduced as Keith’s roommate. He thanks them and leaves, no big deal, the cadet will show up or he won’t. By the time he makes it to the end of the mess, he’s heard a bit more, from a loud-voice of a cadet exclaiming over Keith’s behaviour, from arguments over whether the other cadets had gone too far in their accusations. No one really seems to know what happened; those involved aren’t sharing, but then, no one expects science cadets to share much with the pilots and engineers.

Keith’s in a corner of the admin building, risking being found by those who linger, working late. Hunched over, knees drawn in: a gargoyle’s posture, tilted back, protecting Keith instead of the building on which he might have perched. There’s a tiredness in the set of his face, still, not moving, a mask, even, to cover whatever’s going on below the surface.

His query of “you ok?” gets a shrug; Keith doesn’t even turn away from his regard of the first rays of sunset.

Laughter erupts from below, giggles and the sound of feet on stairs. His ears heat up; when he had been a first-year, rumour had it that the admin roof was a favourite spot for couples. Looks like it was true, though less popular now perhaps. Grabs Keith’s arm and hauls him towards the fire escape, gets him out of sight, ignores the glare he gets for his trouble.

“C’mon,” he says when they land on the ground. “I’ve got an idea.” Keith gives him a look when Shiro turns him towards the vehicle shed, but stays quiet. His shoulders are hunched and a defensive glower settles around him. Wait here, he tells Keith, leaving him on the edge of the shed, on the side secluded from the rest of Garrison’s complex. Keith just nods, fades into the shadows. He’s good at it, disappearing into the background.

When he calls Keith over to where the bikes wait, he doesn’t miss the glint of anticipation that disrupts the emotionless mask, and he grins. “You’ve ridden one around Garrison, right?” Keith nods, settling onto the seat of one of the hover-bikes. “You know the basics then; watch out for wind when we get out there, don’t take it too fast.” Keith rolls his eyes at that, and he bites back the laugh. And then they’re off, Keith following his lead and then, sooner than he expected, though he should have known better, Keith’s up beside him, matching his speed through the desert corridors, spaces marked by the upward thrust of the rocks and buttes.

He can see Keith relax, immerse himself in the flight of the bike, and he smiles to himself, grins in response when Keith looks over, eyes bright, grinning in the force of the wind. Shiro’s a good pilot, one of the best, part talent, mostly a focus that drove his practice to the point of praise. But Keith, he can tell, will blow him out of the water one day, soon. He’s seen Keith in flight sims, knows that when Keith gets his hands on an actual plane, the thing will sing in his hands. He’s got good instincts, knows how to read the feel of the metal and machine surrounding him. Look at them now—a few runs around Garrison, and then, faster than a snap of the fingers, and Keith’s driving the bike like he’s been doing it for years.

A sudden, sharp gust of wind kicks up, forcing Shiro to fight to keep the bike’s balance as he shouts a warning to Keith. But Keith lets the wind take him and the bike, throwing his weight to shift the bike’s centre of balance so that, as Shiro’s heart jumps into his throat, images of explaining himself to his superiors flashing past his eyes, the bike flips, landing roughly, but still upright. Keith’s eyes are bright as he laughs, and Shiro realises that this is the first time he’s heard Keith actually laugh, without anything tainting it. And much as he would give anything (the thought gives him pause later) to hear it again, he can’t take another almost-heart attack. “If you’re going to show off,” he admonishes, grinning weakly in relief that Keith hadn’t crashed, “maybe try something a little less spectacular?”

Keith just grins, mischief dancing across his face, in response: “I make no promises I can’t keep.” Rolling his eyes, Shiro kicks his bike into gear, takes off, teases Keith that he’d better keep up.

They stop in one of the wind-cut breaks in the rocks, the dying sun staining the ground red, leeching the colours from their uniforms as it draws the last of its light back. Keith’s looking pensive again, adrenaline of the ride fading in the memory of whatever had happened, staring at the maze of rock and gully that stretches out before them.

“More jealous classmates?” Shiro asks quietly, carefully. But Keith shakes his head, says quietly “Third-year, one of the science cadets. Ruined some big experiment; wasn’t looking where I was going, ran into him.” _My fault_ , so quiet it may have just been whispered to the wind, implications on the breeze.

And that’s all there is to it, or at least, as far as Keith is concerned. Shiro frowns. There’s something different about Keith’s tone, usually he’s not so quick to admit fault. He’s learned not to push when Keith clams up, but he does anyway, notes the way Keith’s shoulders hunch in, defensive, how he looks over at the bikes. Remembers how Keith had said he knew how to get kicked out and start fights, refused to accept that he could do something else.

“That pass you got from Jansson?” Keith looks over, confused but nods. “Means you can do more than get yourself into trouble. You’ve got skill Keith, you can fly like no one else I’ve seen. And I’ve flown ‘prentice to some of the best.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Smiles, grips Keith’s shoulder and gives it a little shake before letting go. Perhaps lingers longer than he should, than he would have if it had been anyone else. Means that Keith needs to have more confidence in himself, he says, that sometimes, regardless of what others say, it isn’t his fault when things go wrong.

“C’mon,” he says a while later. “Race you back.” Keith snorts, but grins crookedly, asks if Shiro’s ready to be beaten by a first-year. As if, but all the same, Shiro barely makes it back before Keith does.

\---

He’s started looking forward to dawn, even on days when the air is cold and the weather miserable. Keith’s a regular now as well, showing up every day, even on the weekends. Shiro’s the infernal optimist, Keith teased; he’s just a normal morning person. “I don’t think anyone would classify morning people as normal,” Shiro retorted, earning a bark of laughter from Keith, a concession to the point.

Finals are coming up, and Shiro’s pacing the halls, tiger-nerves showing in the face of the last hurdle. Lisa and Sven tossed him out, ostensibly so they could study; they had their own way to lose the nerves, and really, if he hears _you’ll be fine_ one more time, he’s going to murder someone and there goes his golden reputation. Murder, even in the face of finals, generally doesn’t go over too well. Before he came to Garrison, he’d spent hours alternating between taking his bike out to the fields behind his neighbourhood, studying, and losing himself in the bright lights of his game consol. Curfew had him constrained, so here he was, pacing, deciding to head for the gym, punch the bag for a while until he calmed enough to review procedures, mechanics, and physics equations one more time.

“You do know the bag is already dead, don’t you?” Keith’s voice breaks him out of his focus, has him look up to see wry amusement light Keith’s eyes.

“Big test tomorrow,” he sighs, stills the bag. “Nerves.” The expected reassurance never comes, Keith just nods, admits to hating tests as well. Snorts when Shiro asks how he deals with them; how else? Running until exhausted enough to sleep. Keith pauses, asks tentatively if Shiro would like a sparring partner.

“You don’t mind?” It would be better than the bag, and Keith will give him a good run, guaranteed. Keith smiles wryly, “Our year-finals are in a couple of weeks. You can return the favour then.” He grins; it’s a deal.

Keith’s as fast as he remembers, moving with a liquid grace and a general disregard of fighting styles and traditions that would be praised and lamented respectively. It’s a flurry of punches, jabs, and kicks—his carrying more force, Keith’s blocks aiming to use that force against him, set him off balance—and then he’s able to toss Keith, jump out of the way as Keith’s feet lash out. Grins as Keith demands to know how he did it, pauses to let his heart rate slow before he goes through the steps, exams forgotten for the moment, attention turned to the lesson, to the intent focus Keith directs at him. One more go once Keith has the throw down, harder now that Keith has figured out Shiro’s reach. Eventually though he manages to catch Keith, pin him, end the match. As they stand, separate, a fire ghosts over his skin; the lingering thrill of adrenaline, surely.

“So tell me,” Shiro asks as they walk laps around the gym, cool down. “Was I better than Sven?” Keith chokes back a laugh, grins and nods. “Well that’s good,” he blows out a ragged sigh, grins himself. “Sven’s kicked my ass enough times over the years; at least I beat him in this.” That gets a laugh out of Keith, a conspiratorial “better tell him then.”

Keith shrugs noncommittedly when Shiro thanks him, a faint blush rising. “It’s nothing. ‘Sides,” rolls his shoulders, shrugs one in a manner that Shiro has come to identify as Keith’s uncomfortableness at being thanked at all, “I needed the challenge.” Classmates not much of one, and Clark was getting tired of interceding in the fights that still happened on occasion. There was talk of moving him to another class, though with class schedules being what they were, it wouldn’t be until after the year-finals.

“Good to know I’m still ahead of you in something,” he teases, gets shoved towards the mirrored wall in return. “You think you could slow down in your flight classes?” This time he dodges the punch, laughs as Keith rolls his eyes, grins, relaxed in a way Shiro has rarely seen. That Keith never is around others, in large groups, and something warms curls around his chest, catches in the back of his throat that he gets to see this side of Keith.

“Thanks again Keith,” he says as they head out. “I mean it; it’s a big help with these damn nerves.” Keith ducks his head, “anytime” coming from behind his long hair. Shiro smiles, offers to spar if Keith wants, even once the year-finals pass. “Thanks,” Keith says, pauses at the junction that will bear them to their separate destinations. “And good luck tomorrow. Try not to set too high a record.”

He laughs, feels some of his exam nerves dissipate, promises not to. Returns the mock salute as Keith turns away, heads back to his room and his books. Another hour, then he’ll try and get some sleep… Last set of exams. Last ones, then he’s free of these tests and hoops.

He can’t wait.

\---

It’s the tail end of the year, graduation’s here and the final years are standing a little taller, nervous-excited in the face of what the new uniform will mean. The first years just look glad to have survived, some talking excitedly about the return home for the few weeks they’ll have off, friends to see again. Those in-between alternate between awe and jealousy at the senior cadets, finally ‘adults,’ ‘grown-up,’ and relief that they, like the first years, could enjoy a summer that didn’t involve first assignments, new duties and responsibilities. His parents arrive today, for graduation, and he finds himself smiling in anticipation.

His exams had gone fine, top scores, more eye rolls and gossip, congratulations and high fives. Had managed not to punch Sven when his friend made an off-hand comment about his late night training sessions; he’d admit to them, but there was no way to do it and effectively deny the innuendo hiding in Sven’s tone. Turns out Keith was just as bad as him before exams, maybe worse: he’d had years of figuring out his exam nerves, far as he could tell this was the first time Keith had cared enough about something to get them. Had just hated tests before, the jumping to someone else’s tune, the judging implied and actual, that exams meant. In the last few days before the first-year’s finals, Keith had started bringing his books with him in the morning, accepting Shiro’s offer to quiz him as a study aide without comment or protest. Shiro wasn’t sure if that said more about Keith’s nerves before the exams or the level of their friendship. But Keith had passed as well, flying colours in all flight classes and weapons, good in the others. His strong grades had surprised him, earned an _I told you so_ from Shiro (which earned _him_ a punch in the arm).

If someone had set a picture of Keith from the beginning of the year against him now, it would have been hard to see, but Shiro could have told you the difference. Keith stood straighter, his shoulders back instead of hunched forward. A picture now would have him meeting your eyes; that one from the first day of cadet school would have shown a young man who refused to hold a gaze, hard to pick out of a crowd because he reflected attention away from himself. Keith could still disappear at whim, but his default now was to stand his own in the crowd. Shiro would have said it was because Keith finally trusted that he could do things other than fight and get kicked out, that he was talented, smart, able to hold his own. Had someone asked Keith, had he considered answering, he would have said perhaps because someone had finally thought him worthwhile to have around, worth weathering the storms for. Two sides, one coin.

Suddenly Shiro’s waving, excited and green again as he sees his parents. Only child, son, leaving had been hard; his father had had hopes that Shiro would follow him, one more Shirogane in the world of white shirts, ties, and pressed slacks. Hadn’t protested though, when Garrison came up, just asked if Shiro was sure, support ever since. Tears when he left, blinked back furiously by his mother; over-brimming pride now, two days before the ceremony when Senior Cadet Shirogane becomes pilot, junior officer.

They talk of nonconsequentials, gossip from home, from his parents’ work. He hears about his school friends, those who still live in the neighbourhood, and he answers the questions about Sven and Lisa (Please tell me they’ve finally gotten together, his mother demanded, dimpled when he said yes, then sighed; long time coming, that), about the other people he’s named or they’ve met. Keith comes up briefly, wiggles away from that topic, and then, speak of the devil, they run into Keith hiding (loitering, had it been anyone else) in the shadows of the buildings.

Brief introductions, his mother’s “Oh, so nice to finally have a face to put to the name” has his ears burning, Keith torn between looking for an exit and wanting to punch Shiro. Parents. Mothers, really.

Keith’s quiet reply that he’s remaining at Garrison over the summer break has a quick look pass between his parents, a follow-up question about what he’s doing for dinner; Keith’s panicked look betrays him. “You were going to skip, weren’t you?” Shiro teases, knowing full well that the mess hall would be full of cadets and their families right now. The muttered denial dissuades no one, and Keith, looking a little shell-shocked, suddenly finds himself included in their dinner plans. His protests have no effect.

“You are far too skinny to skip a meal,” Shiro’s mother tells Keith firmly, “Now come; you need to eat something that can be classified as real food.” Shiro rolls his eyes; his mother never let him forget that complaint from first-year.

Shiro answers Keith’s whispered “If I promised to get dinner from the kitchen?” with a shake of his head, a wry chuckle, “Won’t work. It won’t be so bad, plus this will be a far better dinner than whatever the mess is putting out.”

Talk at dinner moves towards his parents’ jobs again, the neighbours. Questions about what Shiro will be doing now that he’s graduated, speculation about what being a fighter pilot will be like. Keith’s quiet, but listens intently. Shiro wonders fleetingly when the last time Keith sat at a dinner table like this, but lets it go, knows not to ask. So instead he mentions that Keith has already beaten one of his records, rest are in danger. Keith’s blush flares in his parents’ congratulations, his father’s mock-relief that someone’s finally taken his son down a peg. They all laugh, Keith grinning after a moment, joining in on the mirth.

At the end of the meal, when Keith has relaxed as much as he’s going to, Shiro sees his mother eye his friend pensively.

“Do your hands get beat up by these weapons classes you all have to take?” She smiles kindly at Keith’s shocked face. “I’m a nurse and a mother of a son who saw fit to test my patience and skills,” Shiro blushes, Keith snorts, holds in the laughter, “I notice these things.” Tells Keith that there are a couple pairs of old compression gloves of Shiro’s lying around, still good; she’ll mail them to Shiro, Keith can keep whichever pair fits. Waves away Keith’s stammered thanks, then forces them to order dessert while she abstains; only coffee for her, cakes for the boys.

“I felt like the kids in Hansel and Gretal,” Keith admitted the next day, “Though your mom seems nicer than the witch.” Shiro bursts out laughing, both at the comparison and Keith’s still shocked face.

“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know how to make gingerbread,” he grins. “She tells everyone they’re too skinny; it’s a mom thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Keith sighs, and Shiro feels his stomach drop at the shadow falling on Keith’s face.

“You don’t have to say,” he begins quietly after a moment, “but how old were you?”

“Week before I turned eight,” Keith’s voice is tight, but there’s nothing defensive in his posture. “Birthday’s been a sore spot ever since.” There something behind that statement, but Shiro doesn’t know how to excavate it, bring it out to the open. Doesn’t know what to say either, just reaches out to grip Keith’s shoulder, give what silent comfort he can. Keith looks over, smiles softly through the old pain reflecting in his eyes, and Shiro knows that he doesn’t need to say anything. A few moments after he lets go, Keith looks over again, a smile unshadowed this time.

“Thanks for including me.”

“Anytime,” Shiro says, intent, serious. Then grins, teasing, “Can’t have you wasting away, you’re already too skinny.”

Keith rolls his eyes, “Ass,” he retorts, shoving Shiro towards the wall. But he’s smiling and his eyes are dancing.


	2. Summer

It’s quiet during the summer break, only Garrison staff and the few cast-offs like him ghosting the halls. The instructors are still kicking around, do whatever it is that occupies their summers; Jansson gives him a wave, complains that all that occupies her time now are meetings, training seminars. “Joined Garrison to fly,” she sighs, eyes distant. Gives him a sharp look. “Word of advice. Don’t get a health condition that grounds you.” He smiles wryly, promises to try not to. She laughs, heads off.

He’ll be sad when Iversson takes over for sims; she’s one of the few instructors he liked, respected.

His shared room feels big, with Kyle and Harrison gone. All three had agreed to remain roommates, were moved to the second-year halls before the other two took off. The quiet is nice though, and the walls don’t feel so close. He does kind of miss them, not that he’ll tell anyone. Though maybe Shiro, if he should ask.

He still goes out to the old admin building in the mornings, a routine now, even though classes have paused and Shiro’s off flying somewhere, free from the restraints of Garrison’s walls and concrete corridors. That’s the ache that bites; he ignores it as best he can. Brings a book with him, alternates between reading and watching the sun. Right now he’s working through Marcus Aurelius’ _Meditations_ , ancient words on a doctrine called Stoicism, thoughts of a public man on private life. He’s not entirely sure about it, but the dictates on self-control, on the mastery of the emotions, well… they pose a challenge that allures. Might be something to try, may have him suffering through fewer punishment details than his first-year.

As he stares at the sunrise, desert sands soaking in the hue of the sun, stealing its colours before the bright pale of the summer sky emerges, book on his lap, he wonders. Wonders what it would be like to fly, for real, not in the close confines of the grounded sim. How the wind would catch at the wings, how the insulated cockpit would sound, feel. Maybe he’d ask Shiro. He’d promised to tell Keith about his first assignment when he got back, a series of short trips from the station orbiting Earth to the Moon and back. Space flight would be different, of course, but that vacuum would pose its own constraints, riddles to be teased out, learnt by feel.

Turns back to the beginning of book seven, frowns.

_In speech, attend to what is said, and in every deed observe what is done. See immediately in the one to what end it refers, in the other watch carefully as to what is signified._

Keeps reading, rolls his eyes a little while later.

_A scowling look is altogether unnatural; the result, when it is assumed, is that all beauty dies, to be so completely destroyed that it cannot be rekindled. From this very fact, conclude that this is contrary to reason._

Sure thing Marcus.

\--O--

He gets back late at night, exhausted from the trip, the endless protocol around it. His report, forewarned by one of the pilots he had met on the station, had been cursory, accepted with the barest of additions, and then he was off for a few days. Would be running errands from Garrison for the next while. _Some admiral has her eye on you_ , the duty sergeant had sighed, tired as well. _Apparently you’re to be a model for the new cadets. Have fun._ He’d managed not to wince; more spotlight?

He’s still tired, but awake for dawn out of old habit. Doesn’t even really think about it, but heads for the admin building. Doesn’t know if Keith’s been showing up, continuing the rendezvous; would say he didn’t care, but that’d be a lie. The crisp air has him relaxed by the time he makes the building, muscles loose, relaxed.

He smiles when he sees Keith in their usual place, feels something inside relax, warm. Keith’s reading, eyes fierce in their focus, brows slightly furrowed, and Shiro stops, doesn’t want to disrupt the sight before him. But eventually he does, walking over and asking Keith what he’s reading, gets the cover of the book flashed for his information.

“Wasn’t he a Roman Emperor?” Shiro asks, trying to dig the information out of his memory banks. Keith nods, unfurls a bit. There’s a tenseness there, but it dissipates as he asks Keith about the book, about other books. Turns out Keith is a secret bibliophile, an avid reader. But then, once Shiro thought about it, made sense. Introverted, shuttled around; books were probably the easiest things, the best way to escape, to learn, hope. When he asks Keith what his favourite book is, Keith sighs, furrows his brow.

“Hard to say,” he says, “There’s the _Dog Stars_.” Shiro relaxes back against the wall, faces Keith, sunrise forgotten, as Keith tells him about the book, animated in ways he normally only is when he talks about flying. Smiles when Keith confesses that the book was one of the reasons Keith had considered Garrison, learning how to fly; “He had nothing else, just his dog and an old plane. And he stayed alive because of it.” The way Keith says ‘alive’, Shiro knows it’s not just simple existence he means, but life, living in all its possibilities, the ability to stand as yourself, stand on your own terms.

“I’d like to read it someday,” he says quietly, honestly, is rewarded by a shocked look, then bright, slow smile from Keith.

“I can lend you my copy,” Keith offers carefully, now Shiro’s turn to be surprised, gratified; he gets the feeling this happens once in a blue moon, Keith lending out what few precious possessions he has.

“Thanks Keith,” smiles. “I’d appreciate it.” A promise to bring it tomorrow, another to look after it. And then, all lingering tension gone from Shiro’s absence, Keith asks about the assignment, is coaxed to laugh at some of the stories. And the sunrise warms, heats the world, comforting and familiar; life goes on, but not everything has to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes from Marcus Aurelius' Meditations book 7 are adapted from George Long's translation, which can be found here: http://classics.mit.edu/Antoninus/meditations.7.seven.html
> 
> The Dog Stars is by Peter Heller and is highly recommended.


	3. Cadet Year 2

He’s studying in the senior lounge, sent on his way by the librarian; clearly his fault, must be something he does that has the constant flares ups going. Certainly not because he refuses to conform to whatever mold the other cadets came out of. Frowns at his books.

“Hey,” a voice jolts him, looks up to see a short, dark-haired woman in an engineer’s uniform before him. “Fly Boy le deux.”

Stares, mouth slightly agape. She snorts, “And here I was told you were smarter than you looked.” His brain catches up with the meeting, memory asserts itself, and “You’re Shiro’s friend. The one with the bad nicknames.”

She laughs, “Lisa. And you’re the ace with the attitude.” Narrows his eyes, tells her that he does have a name. Her eyes dance, “Mm-hmm. And I’ve been hearing it a lot lately.” He feels the tips of his ears burn, turns to annoyance at her opening salvo to hide his discomfort, the way his heart had changed its constant rhythm at Lisa’s words.

“Fly Boy le deux?” Sarcastic, sneering. “You can’t think up anything original?” But she just winks, saunters off, throwing out a “Once you’ve done something original, we’ll talk.” She misses his scowl, attempt to burn holes through her back for throwing him so off balance.

Every so often Shiro will clap him on the shoulder, fingers lingering. Sometimes he’ll bump Keith on the shoulder, laugh softly in a way that Keith’s pretty sure doesn’t happen for anyone else. Each time he hopes for the touch to continue, feels a pit of dread at what caring for someone this deeply will mean; pulse beats hard at the laugh, holds the dual beat of competing emotions. The times he’s shoved Shiro in annoyance, fire lingers on his skin, in the adrenaline rush after sparing the punches and grips of the holds ghosts dancing on his skin. Hyper-aware around Shiro, he’s noticed that he sits closer to the other man than he would anyone else, that even on the bad days, when he can’t stand being near other people, he leans toward the comfort that Shiro’s company provides.

Yet at the same time that he yearns to respond to Shiro’s touch and light laugh, fear draws him back, a tension that holds him in taut limbo, uncertain and unsure. He can name them all, describe their faces, those he loved and lost. There’s no Venn Diagram, with a small oval of overlap; they’re one and the same. His parents, the few kids at the orphanage that he befriended, Nan… all gone. Experience fuels the fear that Shiro would join that list. It was already long enough, painful enough, more than painful enough.

Everyone always left, willingly or not. He couldn’t bear it if Shiro did too, for real; hard enough, when Shiro left on assignments.

But moth to flame, he can’t stay away. So he torments himself, leans close to the man whose company he knows he should avoid, stop the pain that fuels the constant ache before it can be augmented by new loss.

And so the next time he sees Shiro, he’s complaining about Lisa’s nickname for him, soaks in the startled laughter that ‘Fly Boy le deux’ elicits. He should be running, but for once he’s content to stand still.

\---

He used to get in fights all the time, no surprise there, sure. But not all were about him, how many, what percentage, he doesn’t know; doesn’t like to quantify things. They happen or they don’t, no need for numbers to muddle the actuality of something. As if 20% makes it less real than 70.

Those fights not about him were about others, about protecting the little children, the new kids, the ones who still cried in the night, wet the bed, sucked their thumb long after the jaded kids, the older ones thought it appropriate. Keith stood up for those kids, a scrawny protector of what remained of a childhood marred by loss. He couldn’t say why he did it; it certainly wasn’t because he was looking to make friends or saw himself as some great hero. The littles half the time were just as scared of him as they were the bullies. He’d never been effusive, after his parents’ death even less so, a serious countenance that was off-putting on a child. Perhaps he did it because he’d been bullied in school, back when he still had a family, and he didn’t like bullies. Or perhaps because life had already been so unfair to all of them; picking on the new kids didn’t make it more fair for the bullies, just horribly more unfair for the littles. Maybe having someone stand up for them could interject a little fairness, something to try and make up some of the balance wanting.

So Keith drew the ire of the bullies, got in fights, fought back. He was fast, hard to hit, catch. When he was thirteen, a foster family enrolled him in martial arts with their children. A few months later he was sent back, but the social workers praised the decision to send him to the classes, said it helped instill some discipline in him. He had progressed quickly, and the instructor let him continue to come, even after he had been returned to the home. Same city, his service to karma and good deed of the year.

A few weeks into the new term, and he notices a first-year cornered by the Russian thickwits and their weasel friend. Doesn’t even think about it, just wades in; still doesn’t like the three, even after he wiped them in weapons, and knows that whatever’s going on, it’s nothing good.

“Lay off,” he says quietly, and all three jerk away, look at him in shock then pleased anger. Two sets of balled fists about to come up, weasel steps back, eyes darting side to side. Keith considers the merits of kicking him into the wall, since there are no classmates to aim for. Maybe later. For now, he just raises an eyebrow, waits for it.

“Gentlemen,” comes the rumbling voice of Commander Wade, displeased and ominous. Wade hates cadets, considered his tenure overseeing them as a personal hell. They disrupted the perfect order to which Garrison regulations aspired, and he especially loathed cadets like Keith whom he thought took particular delight in disrupting his attempts to instill order (only partially true; Keith did take a twisted pleasure in tweaking the commander’s perfectly trimmed mustache). “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Demerits for loitering, all five.”

The first-year’s eyes widen, but he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. All five salute, turn away under Wade’s demanding stare. Keith shares a hallway with one half of the thickwits, quietly tells him to leave the first-years alone; answers the sneered “or what?” with the promise to get an actual fight going in front of Wade, informs the thickwit that he knows exactly how to make the other look like he’s in the wrong. “And your record is worse than mine. So lay off.” Leaves his erstwhile companion looking stunned, heads for flight class, puts the incident to the side.

A few days later he gets a whispered thank you, nods, expects it to be done. Has a shadow for another few days, until his shortened temper and exasperation makes it clear to the first-year and the other shadows he picked up that hero worship might be tolerated by some cadets, as Shiro had, but not by Keith. Harrison teases Keith about it for a while after the incident, gets pens thrown at him for his pains. Kyle keeps his nose out of it, probably because he isn’t in the room much these days.

Keith doesn’t think much of it, doesn’t really notice to be honest, until Harrison complains about how Kyle has a girlfriend and has left him alone with the functioning mute. Takes a minute, but Keith realizes that’s him (later, when the complaint raises itself again, Keith considers pointing out that Harrison does have friends, but then realizes that he’s being baited and so remains silent), decides to ignore Harrison and focus on his flight homework. Focuses to the point that he can almost obliterate the unsettling hiss of envy, want.

\---

There’s been a tired set to Shiro’s face these past few days when Keith sees him in the morning, gone by the time he passed Shiro in the halls, off to instruct new cadets in sims, standing in for Jansson (when Keith’s year found out, there were loud groans, complaints about how they were only off by a year, how unfair; missed the chance to be taught by the fabled Takashi Shirogane. Keith shifts, emotionless as best he can, uneasy with the hero worship happening around him. Shiro’s a _person_ , not this ideal construct; they need to remember that). He doesn’t like these conversations about feelings, always the risk that they’ll rebound on him, but he likes the weary look Shiro’s been carrying, hiding, even less.

“Hm?” Shiro shrugs when Keith asks if everything’s alright, “Yeah, fine. Just tired.” Keith doesn’t buy it, raises an eyebrow, gets a wry laugh. “It’ll pass, I’ll be fine.” Pauses, eyes distant, back on the sun, “It’s just…” Shakes his head, stops.

Keith nudges him, “It’s just what?” Silence answers him, the gathering kind, that speaks to thoughts being compiled, feelings shifted and weighed. He waits, patient for once.

Shiro sighs, “It’s just I had hoped to just be another pilot once I graduated, be done with everyone watching all the time. Someone in brass seems to want me to stick around, so I guess not. It’s just more tiring with everything else now.” He frowns, then shakes his head, shrugs. “It’s okay, I guess. I’m used to it.”

Keith frowns at those last few words. Sometimes they’re okay, but he’s far more familiar with the times those four little words show the wear, the canyon gullies worn through by endurance and life. “That doesn’t make it right,” he says quietly, hotly. “If you don’t want the attention, you shouldn’t have to deal with it; their wants aren’t more important than yours.” He holds Shiro’s gaze when he looks over, surprised.

“It doesn’t always work that way Keith.” There’s a weary acceptance of the way things are there, and Keith suddenly has to fight the urge to protect Shiro. Because if there’s anyone who doesn’t need that, he would have thought it would be his friend. But something is shouting that this time, maybe that’s not the case, that someone needs to protest the way things ‘always work,’ since Shiro clearly won’t. He’s learned to trust his gut over this past year, since he arrived and found out he could actually do something constructive, and so in he wades.

“No,” he concedes, “but it _should_.” More surprise, then a slow smile at the conviction in his voice, and Shiro nudges him back.

“Thanks.” Shiro’s voice is warm, low, full of gratitude, relief that someone gets his reticence and won’t say that he should be happy to have the attention. And there’s now even less distance between their shoulders, the fabric of their uniforms almost touching. It’s the closest Keith’s ever been to someone, and he can feel Shiro relax without turning to look at him.

“Anytime,” he says self-consciously, trying to focus on the sun and not the closeness. But then he shifts, and suddenly he can feel the edge of Shiro’s hand against the tips of his fingers. He should move, he knows it, but Shiro doesn’t give any sign that he’s noticed, and so Keith stays where he is, hoping that the thud of his heart isn’t actually as loud as it is in his ears.

\--O--

Lisa gave him a couple of pictures that she took on her new camera, face caught somewhere between teasing mirth and serious support. He’s not sure how she managed to get them without him noticing, but these days, well, he’s not exactly the most observant when Keith’s around. It’s in one of the back corners of the second floor study hall, where hardly anyone goes, he’s helping Keith with his advanced physics homework. Lisa had been there too, reviewing the schematics for the ship she’d be joining soon, laughing at Keith’s face at her nicknames for them both. In the photo they’re both relaxed, at ease, an intent focus on Keith’s face, and Shiro’s still surprised when he looks at it how close he’s to Keith in the picture. _You gonna make your move anytime soon?_ Lisa had asked when she handed them over; he had just stared in surprise, blushed furiously. Good thing Sven was off somewhere, away from base; his advice had remained the same: ticking time bombs should be avoided.

He wouldn’t have thought, but the photo has him thinking. Remembering how sometimes his fingers will brush Keith’s, how they’ll sit so close they might as well be touching. Maybe. If he can get his heart out of throat whenever he thinks about actually asking. If he can do so without scaring Keith away.

A few days leave has him waiting for Sven, kicking around the town near base after returning from visiting his parents, where he spent far more time than he thought he should have dodging questions about “that nice boy, the skinny one. Keith, yes?” than he thought he should have (his mother’s nonchalance far more obvious than she thought it was). Their schedules finally overlapped; time for a beer or two, catch-up, gripe about commanding officers in the bar that caught complaints and held them, soaked its walls and imbued the air with the venting of generations of Garrison’s graduated officers and NCO’s.

A box of old books, quarter a piece, has him pause, remind himself to return the book Keith leant to him (he had enjoyed it, but it had been a slow read, painful almost). Peers in, sees a title that sparks a memory, double checks it, then grabs the book, offers the charity store his custom. The book is battered, but pages are all there, intact and legible; small enough to fit in his jacket pocket. And then he sees the shuttle from Garrison, hails his tall friend, and they’re off, laughing at old jokes and complaints; too hot this southern sun, late again as usual, not all of us have clocks wired in.

Keith’s face when he gives him the paperback is something that Shiro will never forget (and he won’t, though one day he’ll bury the memory so deep somedays it will feel as if he has, a hole from the loss of something more precious than words or weight can equal). He had been right, it was the one title from that fantasy series Keith liked that he had never been able to find; feels a glower of satisfaction at that. But at the same time, it’s just a paperback, 25 cents at a thrift store found on chance. Shiro doesn’t know how to handle the feeling that arises when he realizes that the panic lingering below Keith’s delight at the book is that this hasn’t happened that often before, someone remembering something said off-hand, long ago, and making good on that unexpressed desire. So he just smiles, tells Keith he doesn’t mind if Keith wants to start reading it, but, to his surprise, Keith shakes his head, says he can wait, asks Shiro about the _Dog Stars_ instead. They spend the morning alternating between the sun and the stars, quiet conversation that seems easy and light but peels back pages of feelings and responses to the pain and stubborn hope echoing through the stained paper describing a world destroyed, lost.

When they get up to leave, Keith to class, Shiro to his debriefing, Keith looks over, thanks him again; then pauses, pensive, gathering words. Shiro waits.

“I know to most it’s just a book,” Keith says finally, “But to me, they’re more than that.” And because of that, there aren’t the words to thank properly, but he hears the conviction, the depth.

He smiles. “I know Keith.” He feels he should say something more after that, but he’s not sure what, so he stops. But the relieved light, the joy at the shared understanding, in Keith’s eyes tells him that he’s said exactly the right thing, offered the right amount of words.

The way the sunlight falls across them right now, it does something that lights Keith on fire, and it just looks so right, so perfect that Shiro wishes he could capture the moment on camera, save it forever. But life waits for no one, nothing, not even the solar light show, and they must leave. Duty calls and all, and he won’t let Keith skip class, so on they go, moment gone forever, etched only in memory.

\---

Keith’s got a sleeping bag wrapped around him when Shiro arrives in the morning, and he restrains the urge to demand if Keith’s ok, what possessed him to spend the night outside when the temperatures probably dropped below zero. Just shucks off his jacket instead, drapes it over Keith’s shoulders, gives him a pointed look when Keith makes to hand it back. But the expected huff of annoyance doesn’t come; not the usual complaints from roommates or classmates this time. So he sits, waits. There’s an expectant weight on the air, and before long Keith hunches in, eases of, sighs in an impatient, annoyed way that Shiro’s come to know.

“Turns out I don’t do great in a team.” Mid-thought, so much skipped over; it’s obvious, can be inferred, no need to be said. Normally he can catch up pretty quick, but this time Keith’s jumped over a lot, has left a lot out. Shiro frowns, thinks back to this time his second year, forces memory to fire. “Team trials?” he asks finally, and Keith nods, fingers picking at the sleeping bag. When Shiro tells him not everyone’s cut out for team work, that it’s fine (even expected in Keith’s case, but he doesn’t say that), Keith shakes his head, sighs, goes silent. Then rushes forward again.

“It’s just … y’know how some things stick around, never leave?” Shiro nods, thrown by the change in topic. It’s connected, but Keith sees patterns no one else can; Jansson, finding out he and Keith were friends, demanded an explanation of Keith’s flight logic, but Shiro had none to give. “What they said, it was just the same.”

Now he’s really confused. “I’m sorry Keith,” Shiro says quietly, “You’re going to have to spell it out for me more.” Keith hunches in, and Shiro nudges him with his shoulder. “Hey hey, it’s ok. I’m just not as fast at picking things up as you are.” That gets a soft snort, an unfurling. But the shoulders remain touching, barely, and Shiro could almost swear that Keith leans into the touch. Doesn’t dare move.

“There was this one family,” Keith’s voice is low, hushed, a secret, something never to be admitted, voiced. “No kids of their own. Four of us.” There’s pain there, old and raw; Shiro shifts, leans so there’s no doubt, arms touching, _I am here_. Keith doesn’t run, must be the right thing. “We messed everything up, so they said; weren’t their real kids, otherwise we’d be better, they’d be able to love us.” And there it is, suddenly so much makes sense.

“They lied,” Shiro says softly, firmly. Keith smiles weakly, eyes unfocused on the sky, but he relaxes a bit, keeps the contact. Then softly admits to self-detonating, to getting himself kicked out of school because he knew that would call social services in, get it to end. Silence after tells Shiro that that’s not all, soft proddings get Keith to tell of one of the girls who found solace in cutting, bloodied rags and shirts that Keith would hide under his pillow for her, under-the-bed too high and sparse to be of any use in hiding secrets. Who he couldn’t get to stop, no matter what he did, so instead he did what he could, helped hide a secret that she wore on her arms. A secret that hid a pain as deep as that Keith kept bottled up.

“They were right though,” Keith says finally, eyes bleak. “Nothing special, just cast-off kids. Why bother?”

Suddenly, he’s so angry he can barely think. There are _so many_ reasons why someone should have bothered, number one being it’s _Keith_ , number two that they were just children. And so it takes Shiro a moment longer than perhaps it should to respond, to get the urge to throttle these nameless foster parents who preferred to gaslight their wards instead of care for them. But perhaps that’s ok; he’s not sure if Keith would have accepted an immediate answer as genuine, not right now.

“There are a million reasons to bother,” Shiro says, still wrestling his emotions into order, “And you _are_ special Keith.” A cynical shake of the head; “Right. To who?” Keith asks, voice burdened by years of experience of new families and broken hope, shattered promises.

“To me,” Shiro says, not thinking about what those words mean, just needing to get Keith beyond the pain of the past, to give him something other than a scar opened by the anger of classmates at a botched exercise. “You’re special to me Keith.”

Keith looks up surprised, shock clearly stamped on his face. Shiro can feel the tips of his ears going hot, but he holds Keith’s gaze, serious, intent. He’s done it now, no going back. Not sure if this is the ‘move’ Lisa had in mind, but it’s what’s happened, what was needed. A flush suddenly stains Keith’s face, and he ducks his head, hiding under the long hair that has him constantly in trouble, receiving lectures about how the dress code for officers isn’t as lax as it is for cadets, and Shiro smiles, feels his own blush slide from ears over to cheeks.

“’Sides,” he says softly, teasing, “it’s ‘to whom’. Not ‘to who.’” He jerks out of the way as Keith elbows him, settles back with a quiet laugh. And then has to resist the urge to jump as Keith resumes the contact, shoulder against shoulder, his fingers brushing against Shiro’s. After a few minutes Shiro takes a chance, moves his hand so that his fingers slot over Keith’s, waits until he feels Keith slowly curl his fingers around Shiro’s, responds in kind.

“I mean it Keith,” he whispers, feels Keith tighten his grip momentarily. “You sure about that?” Keith asks him, quiet, voice trembling. Shiro presses back, nods; “Yes, I am.”

Keith lets out a ragged sigh, tension exhaled for now. He’s silent, and Shiro decides to take that as a good thing. But then, “No one’s ever thought me special before, not since… y’know. And not anyone I thought was special too.” It’s awkward, confused, and quiet, and Shiro almost misses that last bit, but then it processes, and he has to shove down to the explosion of butterflies that it sets off; not helpful right now. Keith looks up, face caught somewhere between _run now!_ and _I don’t want to leave._ So Shiro smiles, holds on to Keith’s hand a little more firmly, feels the heat across his cheeks. Asks, stammers actually, if he really is special to Keith.

And then he gets the most amazing smile, slow and soft, suddenly devoid of all self-doubt as Keith nods, says that he is. A smile that he’ll never tire of, will do anything to have directed his way, a smile that he knows immediately that is for him and no one else. The look that he gives Keith in return must have adequately conveyed the joy and nerves that rushed in at Keith’s words, because the soft look Keith’s giving him brightens with shy amusement.

“Good to know I’m not the only one freaking out,” Keith whispers, smile teasing. Shiro laughs, leans so his head hangs close to Keith’s, almost touching, not quite. “Oh yeah,” he admits. “We’ll freak out over this together.” Keith grins wryly; it’s a deal.

\---

The next while is a mess of leaving on assignments, figuring out where this is going with Keith, putting Lisa and Sven off as best he can. Wouldn’t change anything for the world though.

He’s going to be gone for almost a month, an assignment that has him nervous, lamenting the timing. That has him ask quietly if it will be okay, then broach the question if maybe they could talk about what was happening, where it was going when he returned. Keith’s a steady, still presence beside him; rock against the face of change. A pause and then a nod, a promise they could, just give him a few days once Shiro returns. “Whatever you need,” in response, a hard look to make sure Keith knows it. A smile in assurance, and then they turn back to silent watching, a theatre of the sun’s light, shoulder to shoulder and fingers interlaced. This is one of the better days, when they casually accept the other’s touch. Sometimes Keith can’t take it, other days Shiro feels like he can’t ask for it. But it’s a funny thing; their hands fit into one another, spaces between the fingers the perfect size. Same too, with this. That Keith will lean, share his fire, or that on other days Shiro will just sit back, wait, close but not pressing. They’re both tripping and stumbling, awkward blushes, but they can get this right. It’s been a year and however many months of surreptitious watching, confused replays of encounters, and watching one another; they’ve learned to read each other, give and take, stand firm and even push.

“Tell me all about it?” Keith asks finally as they leave, official day about to begin, and Shiro knows it’s an offering to signal that this will be okay, regardless of how they feel right now. He nods, promises that he will, and then off their separate ways, regimented patterns to fall into.

The assignment has him piloting a group of scientists, one of them about Shiro’s age. Matt, he introduces himself as, excitement fair bubbling over on the trip to Mars and its moons. Nerves too, which Shiro can read as Matt sits up with him, rambling about the oddity of naming the planet after the Roman version of the god, the moons after the Greek god’s partners. “I mean,” Matt continues, staring at the distant figure of the red planet before them, “If they were going to do Greek and Latin, shouldn’t the Latin moons orbit the Greek planet? Planet comes from the Greek _planetes, ‘_ wanderer’, and _planan_ , ‘to wander’, after all.” Shiro can only laugh, say sounds about right, will have to take Matt’s word for it; etymology and ancient history was never really his thing. Once Matt leaves, finds his memory turning back to that day in the summer when he came upon Keith reading, Marcus Aurelius’ _Meditations_ pressing through on paper. Would have to ask if there were any other ancient books that Keith liked to read.

He remembers to do so when he gets back, hears about the _Education of Cyrus_ , the _Histories_ , one by an Athenian, the other by someone named Herodotus who claimed to travel the majority of the known world in the fifth-century. And then Keith’s jumping over to Chinese literature, and Shiro settles back to listen, to watch. To smile broadly when Keith finally looks over, notices him watching, and blushes furiously. “Don’t tell anyone,” he begs, and Shiro can only laugh, promise that Keith’s secret is safe with him.

He gives Keith a good week before he broaches the subject of them. It’s a thorny subject, and not only because of Keith’s past; officers and cadets weren’t exactly allowed to be in relationships. Shiro’s not teaching staff, so things are a little more flexible; Lisa had suggested that they just say it started before Shiro graduated (since, she claimed, they were both committed (she runs over Shiro’s protests) long before graduation, probably since you two made up after your first fight), but it’s not an easy get-around in any case.

It’s kind of a blur, because his nerves are on overdrive and it’s hard to hear his words for the thud of his heart in his ears (what, did it suddenly relocate? Random thoughts, ridiculous ones, a sign of nerves). But he knows that he tells Keith it doesn’t matter what they call themselves, just could they maybe be something? Hears himself say that he doesn’t care about Garrison regulations, that he cares about Keith (so far gone, to admit that…), and then Keith has angled up for a kiss, surprises him, has him grinning like a fool, a quick one in return as Keith blushes, and there it is, they’ve done it. Whatever they are, they are something, and Shiro feels so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and so he just pulls Keith close, smiles in the red rays of the dawn sun. Keith’s leaning in, fingers twitching against the press of their bodies, seeking to explore but unsure how to do so.

It’s a Saturday, and he doesn’t have anywhere to be; there are no classes, and the admin building is silent. So they sit there, close in the opening moments of something new and unsettling and wonderful. A memory from a long moment, one that will soon be painful in the face of loss and displacement. But neither will give it up, not for relief, not for the world.

\--O--

It’s a rush, pure and exhilarating and overwhelming and all he can think of is _never let this end_. Hangs on a precipice, in that cockpit, somewhere on the edge of loft and gravity, fighting Newton’s fame with the roar of jets and engines firing, of combustion and defiance of _if man were to fly, he’d have been born with wings._

He could live in this moment forever.

But like all good things, it must come to an end. Shiro takes over the controls again, finishes the supply run, reminds him that his official open air flight is still for a few days, _so don’t talk about it_ hiding behind the reminder. He nods, adrenaline racing, too hot to take away the lure, call, brilliant being of _actually_ flying.

“It’s going to be _years_ before anyone beats you,” Shiro grins, pride fairly radiating out of him. “No one flies like you do Keith.” He grins, can’t deny the rush that adds to the mix.

First official open air assuages the need to get back out in the wind, sail over the desert’s sun-stained rocks, but the presence of classmates and the drone of instructors dulls the radiant joy he had felt on that first flight. No one can deny, though, Shiro’s statement, unsaid as far as they’re concerned; instructors shake their heads, beam, classmates stare in awe, jealousy. He flies like he was born in a plane, someone says. Maybe.

Sims cut the edge, but he’s built up a tolerance; addicted now, yearns for the high of flight. But he knows the knife-blade on which he dances, the sharp edge of the sword hanging above him. Sure way to get tossed, that, flying when he’s clearly not allowed to out of sight of responsible personnel. So he pushes himself in class, on the sims; long hours at the gym, sparring with Shiro, to turn his mind inward and away from the air. He’ll get there, one day, just needs to be patient.

\---

“Cadet Kogane,” crisp, sharp voice has him freeze, turn and salute as sharply as he can. A tall, saturnine (he’d never say the word, has never used it, only read it, but for whatever reason, it fits this officer) woman stands in front of him, hooded eyes, dark and chary with their thoughts, appraising him. She’s silent, he waits; only notices when she shifts to look behind her that Shiro’s there, and Jansson as well. Both are studies in silent attendance.

He fights the urge to twitch, fidget, run under her scrutiny. So hard to keep still, but he manages it.

“I’ve been told you’re the one to watch,” she says finally. Not sure what to say, so just mumbles a “ma’am,” hopes this will end, whatever it is. Jansson makes a few comments about his flying abilities, Shiro agrees.

“Oh so you’ve met,” the sharp admiral says, surprise that no one believes. The non-question is directed at him, has to say something now.

“As senior cadet,” Keith says softly, wondering if he should still be so straight, ramrod attention, but can’t make himself relax, “Shirogane supervised one of my punishment details last year.” Raised eyebrow, go on. “Commander Wade believed that I could learn how to conduct myself as a representative of Garrison from him.”

“I see.” Oh the urge to wince, how hard it was to restrain, stay still. “You’ve made strides in that direction, I’m sure.” Was that sarcasm? Can’t tell; Jansson’s and Shiro’s faces are expressionless, no help there. And eagle eyes are fixed on him, can’t ask for help either.

“If I have failed to live up to expectation,” he settles on finally, “It  is my fault, not Shirogane’s. Ma’am.”

That gets quick smile, flick of the corner of her lips. “Cadet, you fair destroy expectations, for better and worse. Dismissed.”

Sweet escape, can’t get away fast enough once he salutes. Whispers follow the admiral’s trail through the cadet buildings in Garrison; decorated, mysterious, hallowed: she’s a cipher wrapped up in brutal efficiency and ability. Everyone breathes easier once she’s gone, staff and students alike. Shiro finally unwinds, collapses in a relieved heap; complains about the stress of attending on her, then brightens in what that means, her requesting him to serve on her detail during the visit.

“Think the pilots will let you go?” Keith asks. Shiro shrugs.

“Likely not, but we’ll see. She doesn’t outrank our commander, but I haven’t met anyone more intense than her, so who knows who’d win if it came down to it.” Keith snorted; his money was on her.

“You’ve impressed her though,” Shiro added, crooked smile teasing. “Maybe you’ll be assigned to her detail once you graduate.” Keith’s eyes widen in shock and _oh god please no_. Shiro apologizes, though the fact that he’s laughing makes it hard to take it seriously. But then a quick kiss, a series of them, and Keith figures he can let it go.

\--O--

It happened so fast that it takes them both by surprise, or it must have, but Keith’s freaking out and Shiro can’t really tell. There’s a thrilling of the blood vessels along the side of his head, below his ears, that speak to the adrenaline coursing through his body, but all he feels is a detached calm; whatever this is, Keith needs him to be steady, nerves are no use to anyone right now.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches over to rest first one arm then the other on Keith’s arms; they’re shaking, wrapped around knees clutched to his chest.

“Hey,” Shiro whispers, “It’s ok. You’re ok.” He’s not exactly sure what has set this off, but wonders if maybe it’s the fact that this was the first time their kisses had been anything more than the quick run they usually were. These had been fast, hard, bodies pressed against each other, demanding an intimacy that, on reflection, Keith probably wasn’t ready for. “You’re ok Keith,” he repeats, a cold pit in his stomach wondering if someone had hurt Keith this way before (a tentative question a few days later reassures him that the answer is no, but the cynical add-on that it’s just Keith’s broken brain quickly quashes that relief).

“J… just go,” Keith finally forces out, voice ragged from the emotions warring within his chest.

Keith won’t look at him, and he’s shaking, curled up, trying to calm his breathing. Shiro’s almost an arm’s length away, still grasping Keith’s arms lightly, rubbing circles with his thumbs, giving Keith his space but he will not leave, not yet at least.

“I’m not leaving,” he says quietly, firmly, trying to find Keith’s eyes hidden behind his hair and the shadows of his hunched posture. “Not unless you really want me to. _Not_ ,” he stresses the word, unsure why, but feeling it necessary that Keith know he would stay, “because you think it best for me, or that it’s just accomplishing now what may happen later. And not because you think you’re not good enough, don’t deserve this, or whatever it is that you’re afraid of but won’t say.” Keith tenses and he realizes he’s leaned in too far; settles back a bit, but maintains his light touch, continues looking for Keith’s face, finds it, smiles reassuringly through the worry coursing through his body. “Whatever it is, it’s _ok_ Keith. I mean it.” Pauses, whispers, “If it means anything, I want to stay.”

Keith shakes his head, but leans forward so that he can rest his forehead on Shiro’s shoulder, falls slowly into his embrace, accepts its tentative support. “I want you to stay too” comes out, Keith’s voice rough and catching on the syllables, so quiet Shiro can barely hear the words. But he does, and it’s relief that washes over, has him press his cheek against Keith’s head, smile into the hair pressing against his face.

“Then I will.” Keith’s fingers clutch at his jacket in response. And then, a little while later when he feels Keith relax a little, shifts so that he’s sitting, gives his knees a break. Keith settles against him, back to chest, head tucked under Shiro’s chin, holding onto the arm that wraps around him.

“‘M sorry I’m such a mess,” Keith whispers finally, voice soft and miserable. “It’s ok,” Shiro reassures, “We’ll figure it out.” Keith doesn’t say anything, just intertwines his fingers with Shiro’s, clings as they both wait for Keith’s heartbeat to slow, tension to release.

Eventually Shiro has to leave, though his heart shouts to stay. Keith grabs his arm, stills him for a moment. There’s silence in the air, heavy; it almost obscures the whispered “It means more than you can know,” and Shiro feels his heart lurch, pulls Keith in close, tight embrace, forehead pressed to forehead as he lets go. Keith won’t look at him, not until Shiro asks if he is ok; meeting be damned, he’ll miss it if he has to, figure something out (one of the older pilots swore by food poisoning as an excuse, Garrison’s food being atrocious enough that no one questions it). Keith gives him a weak smile, squeezes his arm, nods.

“I’ll be in the second floor study room, after class.” Shiro nods, smiles as best he can, ok then; see you later.

It’s slow moving from then on out, Keith pulling back when he feels the tension of _too close_ pushing forward. Shiro doesn’t complain, doesn’t push, just accepts. They’ll get past it, one day.

\---

The news he has fills him with a quiet pride and excitement. Piloting a run out to the farthest reach of the sun’s system: Kerberos, Pluto’s moon. Ferrying two scientists, the eager and nervous Matt Holt and his father, Commander Samuel Holt, to the moon’s cold surface to collect ice samples, analyse what they said about the history of the system. But it means a year away from Keith, and that’s going to be hard.

He tells Keith in the course of the sun’s masquerade as a painter, sees the wrench it throws. But Keith puts it aside as best he can once Shiro promises to be back, reminds him that this run is routine now, even though it’s the longest of the runs; he asks Shiro about the mission, space flight. Shiro promises to tell him all about it, admits that he’s not sure how interesting it will be, this run for ice samples. Keith’s smiling again by the time he has to leave, go to class, but it didn’t escape Shiro’s notice that Keith’s touch lingered a little longer than it usually did. Though to be honest, his probably did too.

They’re in some weird, complicated place that has no name and won’t, because he’s not going to push Keith into something he’s not comfortable with. Now’s not the time either, a few weeks before he takes off for a year, jets off into space. He can only hope that Keith will have waited, will decide that this whatever they have is worth hanging onto. Not going to lie, he’s a little worried about that; things can happen so fast here, and a year is a long time. Who can know what will be?

But then it’s the night before departure, and Keith’s joined him on the deserted admin building under the cover of stars. There’s a subtle awkwardness between them, silence. And then Keith’s suddenly seeking the press of his arm against Shiro’s, contact that reassures in its solidity.

“I’ll be back Keith,” he whispers, drawing Keith’s hand into his, “I promise.”

He doesn’t break his promises, even the ones that take him forever to complete. Two years, once, to finish the siding on his grandmother’s house that he promised he would do. So he’ll be back.

He gets a weak smile as Keith rests his head on Shiro’s shoulder. “I know,” Keith says finally, “and I’ll be here when you get back.”

A promise to match his own, and he feels that lingering worry that things might be gone when he returns dissipate. He’s not the only one who keeps his promises.

“You’re going to be great,” Keith continues after another moment. There’s an assurance, firmness to his voice, a pride that overshadows the terror of departure. “You’re the best there is.”

He smiles, leans in towards Keith, wondering how it is that Keith can make him feel the way he does. “Thanks Keith,” he says softly, gets that soft smile that’s his alone in response, presses forward to kiss away the worry lingering in Keith’s eyes.

It’s not a good-bye that sees them depart the secluded spot on the roof, but an _I’ll see you soon, when you get back_. No good-byes; good-byes were for forever.

\--O--

The Kerberos report throws him to the ground. The ruling on the exploration team crushes him into it. He can barely look at Shiro’s parents as they pick up their son’s belongings, faces steady but betraying the cut of emotions locked inside. A quiet pat on the arm from Shiro’s mother, a clasp of the shoulder (so familiar it burns) from his father, and Keith just wants to crawl under a rock. They have lost so much more than he has; what right does he have to ask for comfort, receive it, from them?

He’s back to the close-mouthed, anti-social loner he was when he first arrived by the time he manages to get himself expelled. A ticking time bomb of emotion, fury and anger intermingling with confusion and guilt. He leaves with a defiance that proclaims he knew it would never work anyways, that he was just killing time before something better came up. Or until he just couldn’t help himself.

A knot of classmates watch the sub-commander load him into the old Jeep on hand for Garrison officials. One’s the loudmouth whose name Keith puts out of his mind; no need to remember it now.

\---

The desert is a silent relief of emptiness, freedom. There’s no one to disrupt his space, jar the lie that he’s happy this way. No jokes to laugh at, no friends to tease. But no shared spaces with stabbing memories, not ghosts in the tall figures of strangers.

Before he’d left, Shiro loned Keith a book. It’s coffee-stained, battered; cover faded to the point that Shiro had felt the need one day to trace over the block letters of ‘CATCH-22.’ Keith now traces the pen lines, neat and precise over the remnants of an original printing.

The first time he read _Catch-22_ , he had pored over the pages in the heat of the dawn sun, immersing himself in the pages to forget, momentarily, the distance between him and the book’s owner. Despite his reservations, he enjoyed the read, laughed quietly to himself. Hated Cathcart with a passion, but who didn’t? Saw himself in Major Major, secretly yearned to be Yossarian.

When they kicked him out, he  had piled his books into his old duffel, clothes tossed unceremoniously on top (and then gone, Kyle and Harrison off at class, but why say good-bye? Was inevitable, this). It wasn’t until he stopped living out of the duffel in the spare room at Sheila’s that he unpacked the books in the dusty old cabin, pulling out the old hardback in shock. He had meant to return it to Shiro’s parents. Overwhelming guilt that he hadn’t, crashed away by the relief that he something of Shiro left. One old book and a hand-me-down pair of gloves that he wears constantly.

There’s a special feeling that books give off, one learnt from fingers brushing cover, spine, and pages, brushed in turn, as gentle as any lover’s touch. Keith knows this _Catch-22_ as he knew, knows, Shiro.

It’s a comfort to open the pages, immerse himself in the story again. He finds himself reading the small, grey penciled notes in the margins, remnants of some English class years ago. Lingers over them, their precise forms, slight imperfections in the press of the spine, or evidence of long nights in the open margins. He takes savage delight in Yossarian’s treatment of the corporal in eyeglasses ( _Où sont les Neigedens d’antan?_ ); that should have been his response to Iversson, though he was still proud of the _fuck you sir_ he gave the man.

But then he gets to that part, that scene which Yossarian lives over and over, and suddenly he’s crying, hunched over, tears falling to stain anew the pages before him. He refused to believe in ‘piloting error,’ but he couldn’t get away from the grey void of _disappeareddeaddisappeareddead_.

He finishes the book that night, reading long past the fall of darkness, alternating between tears and ragged breathing in emotion’s aftermath. He’s drained when he finally sets the book down in the small hours of morning; he hasn’t cried, hasn’t mourned, since Garrison’s cover story blasted itself across the news channels. And though he’s been up all night, he can’t sleep. All that waits him is a broken ship, blood and shrapnel everywhere. Shiro, torn open, dying, whispering that he’s cold. Knows Shiro’s dying, can’t do anything about it but sit there, ineffectual, useless, watch him die. Tries to say those words, words he’s longed and feared to say since before Shiro left, but unable to make the syllables stick, turn into words. So he sits there, panic steadily rising, until suddenly he’s thrown himself from the bed and the crash on the cold ground saves him. Can’t get back to sleep after that, shudders through the next while as the nightmare resurfaces.

_Où sont …_

But eventually it goes away, replaced by silent nights and the occasional nightmare, odds even between this one and one where memories of Shiro taunt him, will-o-wisps where he’s never left. Not sure which is worse, but that’s irrelevant; knives slicing the flesh of his psyche either way.

Despite it all, however, he doesn’t hate the book. Sure, he doesn’t read it all again (selective passages, on certain days), but he doesn’t grudge the book, or blame it for the nightmares. It’s what he has left, several hundred pages of stained paper, stiffened within the faded, penciled cover over cardboard facings. That and a memory of a sure smile, one Keith knows was for him only, and the quiet assertion that Shiro’s lending him the book because he thinks Keith will like it. He still wasn’t used to those sudden acts of kindness, fondness; now just a memory to cherish. So he hangs on to the book (short flashes of guilt on occasion; shouldn’t he return it, to parents who have lost so much more than he? But selfishness overcomes, hangs on to it), brushes the spine with fingers that long to touch the curve of Shiro’s chin, run along the lines of his arm instead of the edge of dried pages. It sits in a special spot, the only shelf remaining in a battered bookcase, his other books stacked below, the one Shiro gave him on top, another gift to cherish.

Eventually, though, it moves. Still alone on the only shelf, it now leans against the vertical side, hidden by shadow, visible only to the one who should look at the bookcase directly. Which Keith never does, for reasons he doesn’t know nor cares to think about. Like avoiding town because of the strangers that haunt the corner of his eye. Soon the book on the shelf is just another dull pain, constant and familiar, able to be ignored, so he tells himself, added to the hardening shell that claims to protect him. The gloves he keeps on, comfortable and worn as a pair of jeans, a familiar hand over his, a second skin he doesn’t think about anymore, just wears, silent reminder of a pair of hands that guided his over the controls of the jet as he cuts through the desert, searching for something he can’t articulate.

And so he waits, him and his books, wondering what calls to him in the desert sand. What happened out there, what lies out among the stars?

_Where are the Snowdens, Shiros, of yesteryear?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch-22, Joseph Heller (and if you haven't read this, you are missing out.) The French Où sont les Neigedens d’antan? translates as 'where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?".


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